


The Actor

by Velvetoscar



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Fluff and Angst, M/M, OT5 Friendship, Romance, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-04-11 10:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 85,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4431581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velvetoscar/pseuds/Velvetoscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Styles, the newest, most talked about actor of the 1890's, has taken the London stage by storm, eliciting rumors and scandals alike in the wake of his sold-out performances. So when he's set to lead in Zayn Malik and Niall Horan's newest play at the Savoy Theatre, a comfortably successful establishment owned by Paul Higgins and his son Liam, Louis Tomlinson is only all too eager to work as his personal valet.  </p><p>From here, a star is born. Or maybe a universe, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends, hello, I have come to write something upon my sister's request. So I dedicate this potential monstrosity to her and credit her for many of the ideas we formed together. Thaaaanks Sarah
> 
> This is going to be a work of fun wilde times, so everything is laughably inaccurate and made up; I used the name of the Savoy which is a real theater, but I'm purely using the name and nothing else. This is all a work of fiction and my brain so suspend your disbelief in parts, please. :) I'll probably change hat horrendous summary, as well. Just FYI. :P
> 
> Title taken from The Moody Blues' "The Actor" for which this story is set to. Have a listen! 
> 
> This will be a WIP and I'm an irregular updater (though I aim for every week) so if you wish to join me on this ride, let's have some fun! And if you'd prefer to wait, that is, of course, a wonderful decision as well. 
> 
> Now, let's do this.

Dust creaks from the floorboards as Louis silently walks across them, oil lamps flickering in his wake. It’s late afternoon, drifting into evening, and the theater is dim, silent, and empty as he makes his way around, enjoying the peace of having nothing to do at the present moment. It’s nice like this, all silent and old, the paintings on the walls fading, everything dark and infinite, the outside breeze slipping through the cracks of windows and doors…

Not that Louis doesn’t love the gusto of the theater when it’s awake and filled and alive; with its raucous applause after a grand old show, the chaos of bodies stumbling past each other backstage, the bright lights that leave a thin sheen of sweat on the forehead, the swish of the thick velvet curtains, hum of the audience, shouts of the actors. God, of course Louis loves it, loves all of it—right down to the squeaks of the shoes when the actors make their way across the stage, powdered faces smiling as they recite lines from memory, their voices always pristine and clear.

But he also loves this building, his _home,_ when it’s after hours. When it’s quiet and calm and the mouse feet scuttle in the shadows and the remnants of wilted flowers linger beneath the stage and Louis can walk amongst the shadows and the silence and the ghostly echoes of applause and smile to himself, hands brushing fabrics and polished brass.

It’s nice when it’s just him.

Any given day, Louis usually has about a million things to do, what with tending to whichever actor he’s valet to as well as tending to the odds and ends of the theater—if he’s not humoring Zayn’s eye twitches and supplying him with infinite cigarettes, flicking the lighter alight the minute the stick presses against his chapped, twitching lips, he’s at Niall’s side, waiting for instruction as the man’s calm blue eyes survey the stage and gather a mental list of all the things Louis will need to either fetch or tell Mr. Higgins.  Then of course there’s Liam—Mr. Higgins’ son and Louis’ best mate—who he needs to keep entertained because Liam is a wonderfully good lad but terribly un-self-sufficient. And then, obviously, there are the actors and actresses themselves, who have come to rely on Louis feeding them lines, supplying them with tea, cracking well-timed jokes, and mending whatever bit of lace or stitching that’s come undone on their costumes.

It’s all a bit chaotic. But Louis loves it.

He’s loved it ever since Mr. Higgins—or rather, Paul, he reminds himself to say (though he still feels a bit out of line referring to him so informally after all this time, even if he has developed into a father figure of sorts)—first took notice of him, all those years ago. Eight years, to be precise. Louis’d been twelve at the time, out on his own selling newspapers outside of the theater because he’d outgrown his nest, so to speak. “We’ve not enough room for you anymore,” his parents used to say but it wasn’t unkind and it wasn’t untrue. It was mere fact, is what it was; Louis’d always known that he were to leave home as soon as he was able, make a life for himself and leave his sisters behind, leave his parents behind, and simply survive. His family were never well off; Louis’d been born lower class and knew he was going to stay lower class. And it never got any easier when his parents kept having children; if money was tight when Louis’d been an only child, it was certainly a hell of a lot tighter when he became the oldest of seven. So it wasn’t unexpected nor entirely unwelcome when he’d finally had to pack up his few belongings and kiss his mum for the last time. “Good luck, Lou,” she’d smiled, ruffling his hair as a mum does, and he saw in the wrinkles by her eyes that she loved him, she did. But that it was also goodbye.

So he’d gotten a job selling papers, being a proper newsboy in rain or shine outside the Savoy Theatre, always minding his own and sending smiles and nods and charms to anybody who’d give him the time of day; he knew he needed to rely on his personality if he was to get anywhere in life, being on the lowest rung of the ladder. As he worked, he watched the way people flocked to the building in hopes to see grand shows and large personalities. He heard the way they laughed at the loud jokes and gasped at the vibrant scenes, feeling something like longing sludge through his bloodstream as he stood outside the barred doors and clutched soggy papers in ink-stained hands. At night, he would look upon the rain fogged windows with wistful eyes and sigh as he ghosted fingers over the peeling posters outside that boasted of glamorous actors and actresses from all stretches of the country, bedecked in luxury and exotic scandals. He looked upon them, the smallest bit of sadness tugging on his heart as he wondered what it’d be like to stand up on a stage, all eyes on him, as he thundered out prose with all the eloquence he knew he would never afford to have. Louis knew it was a pipe dream. So instead of getting lost in dreams, he focused on selling the news and smiling his best because every day alive was a good day.  

It had paid off though, is the thing.

It’d been rainy and dreary and generally awful when Paul Higgins approached him. Louis had spoken to him oft enough before, having been stationed outside the man’s theater for a handful of months by that time, but it’d always been rather brief, even if they were always kind exchanges. Usually humorous as well—Paul was a wealthy man, a business man, but he had a ripe sense of humor and always grinned rosy when Louis handed him a bit of cheek with his paper, offering up a glowy grin and chirped jokes that never came out flat. It was just small things. But apparently it was enough for Paul to approach him that day, umbrella in his gloved hands as he smiled rather quietly down at Louis, who’d been all soggy in his peeling shoes and dilapidated trousers, held together by pins and braces that were worn with use.

“Sir,” he’d greeted, sniffling off the rain from his nose and rubbing at his red cheek with the back of his wrist. He’d looked up into Paul’s eyes, unblinking and calm, smile on his face despite being distinctly freezing, toes numb. Never one to show his discomfort, though. Louis’d rather just shrug it off—no point to cry over spilled milk.

“Louis,” Paul nodded, though his tone held more gravity than it usually did, his hand gripping the umbrella handle tight. A tilt was weighing one corner of his mouth, something considering in his brown eyes. “It’s cold work out here.”

Of course it was. Obviously.

But Louis shrugged, grinning as he shielded his newspapers with his jacket, thin as it was. “Suspect it’s colder somewhere, sir,” he commented, tipping his hat with the belief that there was nothing left to say.

Yet Paul still stood there, head still tilted. There was something so kind about his face and Louis admired it, feeling a strange pull towards the comfort of his presence. It reminded him a bit of home. Of being young and cared for.

“You handy with a broom, lad?” Paul had suddenly asked, startling Louis from his sweeping gaze of the rainy streets.

He blinked, noting the small smile that ghosted on Paul’s face as the man observed him calmly. “Er—good as any, I suppose?” he answered blankly, confused by the inquiry. What a question.

“Well, I’ve got a bit of a job for you,” Paul continued, voice sure and warm against the metallic patter of rain. “If you’re interested, of course.” He cocked his head to the building behind them. “In the theater.”

Instantly, Louis’ heart stilled. Then promptly started beating harder.

“I’ve just lost some help here; had a nephew who used to do some odds and ends around the place for a bit of pocket money. Was just visiting London though, you see, and he’s gone back to his family in the country. It’s left me shorthanded and I need someone to pick up where he left off. Tend to a few errands and cleaning.” His voice was calm, almost musical in timbre, and Louis listened with bated breath, expression blank as he awaited words he dared not hope for, lest he be disappointed. But then Paul smiled, kind and sure as he shuffled on the street, shifting his umbrella to the other hand. “What do you say, Louis? Interested in the job?” He motioned to the sky, the nipping winds. “I suspect it’s a bit warmer than this one.”

“And drier,” Louis added, feeling only mildly faint as he blinked through rainwater and almost-tears because wow, fuck, this was…incredible. This was a dream. Almost too good to be true, really. “You’re not pulling my leg?” he asked, just to be sure as he squinted wearily up at the man.

Paul laughed, low and chuckled, clapping one great hand on Louis’ frail back. “Not at all, lad. Come on, then. Let’s get you sorted.”

And just like that, Louis’d been saved, so to speak.

To this day, he loves this place dearly. Has loved it since he first stepped foot inside and stared up at the high ceilings painted with gold and starlight, etched in gilt molding and carved with luxury. The shiny brass knobs on the doors and the velvet-lined seats and the crimson carpets and warm glow of electric lights onstage. ( _Electric._ The Savoy’s one of the only theaters that has proper electricity and Louis’ still fascinated by it.) He loves the musty smell of old perfume, the orange glow of gaslamps that still line the corridors, the gleaming glass of the ticket booth, the ropes that hang limp backstage. The dust that’s permanently settled in the fabric and the occasional wafts of…perhaps flowers, flung eagerly from the night before. The covered piano, the scuffed boards, the absolute everything of the building—Louis fell in love that day, jaw dropped and gaping as Paul watched him with open amusement.

From there, it didn’t take long for Louis to climb the ranks.

It’d started off as Paul said—Louis cleaning this or that, running to the shops to fetch this and that. General repairs. Beating the carpets. Scrubbing the marble floors of the entryway. Stitching loose bits of curtain. Whatever needed to be done.

But then Paul approached him again, smile on his face as he settled a palm on Louis’ shoulder. “Don’t suppose you’d be interested in helping our crew, would you, Lou?” he asked, surely knowing the answer as Louis’ mouth unhinged, eyes widening. He’d been sixteen at that time, hands calloused and heart swollen with unspoken memorized lines from all the plays he’d watched every single night, from staring at the actors and actresses with a sort of reverence he didn’t even care to disguise. He’d been so used to being behind the scenes (and never once feeling anything but thankful—Paul paid him, fed him, cared for him, even coddled him, almost as much as  he did Liam) that Louis never even dared dream of a day where he would be allowed to actively help in the productions in any way.

“Of course!” he’d nearly yelped, standing straighter and attempting to wipe away the blackened streaks on his trousers with clumsy hands while Paul smiled, cigar in hand.

“That’s my boy,” he’d said and exhaled a puff of smoke, arm around Louis.

And so Louis became a stagehand, acquainting himself with the vast array of crew members that he’d previously been a bit shy to approach. Then, after two more-than-successful years of that, he’d then been promoted to the best damn job Louis could ever have asked for: Paul asked him to be the theater’s valet. For the _leading actor_.

It was a dream—a damn unattainable dream, Louis’d have told you himself any day before—but it was now a reality. And every second of every day Louis was damn thankful for it.

He adored it, adored dressing the various actors his theater had come to host over time, loved speaking to them, asking them questions, helping them recite lines and watch them as they rehearsed, so sure and well spoken with the fine trimmings of carefully honed experience under their belts. More often than not, if the actor stayed longer than a play or two, Louis would develop a repertoire with them, sometimes even an unlikely friendship that resulted in an unspoken agreement that Louis could ask any questions he wanted, could house the script in his pocket to feed the lead his lines (with the added bonus of unlimited reading during down time), and the ease of being allowed in the actor’s dressing room at any and all times. It ensured for a lively atmosphere, a familial kinship amongst cast and crew, and it made Louis feel something spark into his veins, like a blast of lightning on the surface of a lake; he felt enriched by the buzz of the theater, fed off the energy it created amongst everyone. Even when he was paired with the actors that didn’t care for him (given his loose tongue and unabashed spirit, some regarded Louis as annoying or brash, perhaps even outspoken for his station), Louis still adored everything that being backstage had to offer, still adored being in the presence of such great talent, of such glamour and show.

Moreso, being valet to the lead actor also granted him access to the higher-ups of the crew as well. It gave Louis more presence in the theater, made him feel a bit more present, a bit more visible, and now, at twenty years of age, he’s grown to be a respected, well-adored presence here. Even Zayn—the erratic, neurotic absinthe-drinking playwright who spends his nights in seedy pubs and gutters if he’s not glued to Niall’s side—has come to smile at the sight of Louis. Which is a feat in and of itself.

Niall’s smile isn’t quite as much of a feat, however, given that his unnervingly calm facial muscles do tend to crack a genuine grin every once in awhile; Niall Horan is the theater’s director. He’s an odd sort—either completely silent or completely thunderous, never in between. And he’s a complete genius. His work is critically acclaimed, his fervor is endless, and his vision glides so seamlessly and colorfully along with Zayn’s  writing that it’s no wonder they’re the dynamic duo of the theater, Paul’s cherished pair. They’re perfect balances; where Zayn is frantic, anxious, self-doubting and paranoid, smoking until he’s blue in the face, his fingers twitching with pent up frustration, Niall is calm, confident, and calculated, observing everything with steady blue eyes, the wheels always turning within. He consists of languid movements and fingers that rest upon his chin as he watches the scenes before him unfold, listening to Zayn’s frantic whispers in one ear and charting the actors’ speech with the other. They’re perfect, they’re two halves of a whole.

To this day, Niall is the only one who can calm Zayn down when he’s having an artist’s strop, the only one who can placate him and ease his solar flare tempers whenever an actor challenges or misinterprets a line or lazily fumbles the prose. Lord knows that Louis, Liam—hell, even _Paul_ —have vainly tried to talk Zayn off of a ledge countless times as they rubbed at their temples and begged him to “unlock the blasted door, you nutter!” or “get back inside, we’ve only just bloody started rehearsal!”. Possessing ever the dramatic streak, Zayn has never been shy to stand in the middle of High Street as carriages and passerby zip past him, cigarette dripping from his snarling lips, refusing to budge if his art “isn’t going to be taken seriously”. It’s only when Niall appears, calm and blonde and pure as the rays of sun that struggle through city smog, that Zayn’s shoulders lighten, his posture loosening, while Niall looks him dead in the eye and speaks in that musical lilt that only the Irish seem to possess. “Back inside, Zayn,” he’ll say, sure as anything, extending his hand. “We’ve a play to create.” And it takes about thirty-odd seconds for Zayn to un-scrunch his frantic brows, stub out his cigarette, and calmly walk back inside like nothing had happened, Niall at his side. Similarly, Zayn is probably the only one who can convince Niall to alter his very firm opinions, so. They respect each other as much as they understand each other, coasting on a united vision. They’re inseparable, which is hardly surprising considering that… Well. Their relationship is of a special sort and Louis knows it, most who’ve been at the theater for any stretch of time know it, and that’s that. It’s nice.

Of course, Louis knows that the nature of their relationship is taboo. If word were to get out, Zayn and Niall’s more-than-professional relationship would result in scandal and ruin but… But the crew here is loyal, like a family of sorts, and Paul is wealthy enough to handle any complications, should they arise, and Liam’s loyal enough to protect and defend them from the cutting remarks of society so Louis really can’t say that he’s too worried about any of it. Rather, he’s just happy for them. Plain old happy because they’re part of his family and, when he looks at them after everybody’s left  the building, the lights shutting off for the night as they gravitate towards one another like second nature before exiting the building as one, he can’t help but wonder how that sort of love could be anything but natural. Not when they fit so well and not when he watches them with a sort of peaceful understanding that he hasn’t come to question anymore. Not when he understands that same sort of love.

It’s good, is all. Zayn and Niall and Liam and Paul and everyone else—it’s all good.

“Oi, Lou? That you?”

Startling, Louis blinks, swiveling around as he finds Liam ambling towards him, his brown hair combed and soft, his smile warm as it always is. Fond brown eyes and soft cheeks and clothes that are tailored to fit his strong, youthful body. He’s not yet married, though many a young lady lust after him and Louis can’t really say he blames them—Liam is as handsome as he is rich, not to mention kind, even if he is a bit silly sometimes.

“The very same,” Louis nods, smiling as he slides hands into the pockets of his thin trousers, braces tugging on the waistband with the weight. He tilts his head, regarding Liam’s bright eyes through an errant lock of hair that’s managed to flee from his cap. “Did you think I was a ghost?”

“No, not at all. Just thought you went home already, is all,” Liam shrugs, falling into step beside him as they continue to walk down the corridor, the stage far and dim beyond the open doorways that line the wall. The soles of their shoes hit against marble and echo. “Just spoke with father about the new play Malik’s written. He’s gotten it casted already.”

“Already?” Louis blinks, eyebrows climbing as they near the exit; the muted squeaks of carriages wheels ghost through the air. “He’s only just finished it! Paul must be anxious for it… Niall said it’s his best work yet, you know.”

“Hm,” Liam hums, smiling a bit as he glances at Louis sidelong. “Doesn’t he say that every time?”

Louis chuckles. “Fair point. Well, lad,” he sighs, clapping a hand to Liam’s shoulder as he reaches the door. “I best get going before it gets too late. We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow. Get the details for me though if you can, yeah? Wanna know who I’ll be working for. I hope we get Roland White again—he was _fantastic_ ”—

“It’s not White,” Liam interjects, shaking his head. “No, it’s some new sort. Smalls, was his name? Something like that? He’s taking the stage by storm though, I hear. Father’s eager to keep him on for a year or two. He’s getting a contract sorted out already, even.”

Louis’ eyebrows raise even further, interest piqued as he listens, chewing on his lip, hands deep in his pockets. He’s not ashamed to admit that he’s always felt a bit swept up by the fame that actors carry around with them, unable to resist feeling fascinated by the whispers surrounding them and their talent. More often than not, the hype is usually greater than the talent itself but on those incredible rare occasions, Louis has seen some truly remarkable individuals. He can’t help but feel a flicker of awe at the prospect.

“Everybody’s talking about him,” Liam continues, voice hushed with excitement as he leans closer to Louis, shuffling from foot to foot. “Apparently, he’s quite the ladies man. They say he’s been with _every_ single leading lady that he’s acted with, so. You know.” He winks, biting his lip through a childish giggle, and Louis has to snort his fondness away because Liam is so, so young sometimes, even beneath his waistcoats and pristine pocket watches and impeccable manners.

“I don’t even know what you’re insinuating,” Louis replies but he feels a small amused smile on his lips as he opens the door. “But let me know everything you can tomorrow, I’m curious. And steal me a copy of the play! Please, mate!” he rushes to add earnestly, bobbing up on the balls of his feet impatiently as Liam sighs, all too familiar with Louis’ pleas of script-stealing. “Zayn’s been refusing to let _anybody_ read it before rehearsal—even Niall—and I’m going mad. I need to get my hands on it, artistic integrity be damned.”

Liam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, alright, I’ll try,” he grumbles, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “But I make no promises—you know how he gets when he’s crossed. He’s scary.”

“Niall’s scarier,” Louis points out but he’s already halfway out the door, bells ringing clear out on the street, passerby chatting loudly, a man shouting in the distance. Horse hooves click against crumbling brick. “Till tomorrow, mate.”

“Bright and early,” Liam reminds with a beam, briefly checking the time on his pocket watch with one practiced flick of the hand. “They’re beginning the stage tomorrow. You know how I love to watch them assemble everything.”

“Of course you do,” Louis deadpans, though he flashes a wink to soften his words as he adjusts his cap. “I’m very aware of how fond you are of watching other people work.”

A faux-glare is procured. “Hush. Now, goodbye, Louis. Till tomorrow!”

“Of course, Liam.”

And with that, Louis flicks the brim of his hat before he waves and slides out the door, a happy thrum in his veins as his lungs fill with the smog of London streets.  


	2. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys assemble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I'll include a song with every chapter... I'm debating at this very moment because I'm just not sure if I'll have enough songs to inspire me? But whenever I do, I'll attach one at the top of the chapter text, alright friends? :) (I've attached this one, you shall see, just you wait)

_Longing_ by Sean Feucht

**

It’s still dark out, the sky etched and inky as the first dregs of sunrise speckle the horizon. It shades over the uneven rooftops, catching beneath the chunky shingles and throwing off strange shadows. Louis watches them as he blinks past the sleep in his eyes, yawning between sips of weak tea that warm his slack lips, cold hands pressed to the milky glass of his teacup, chipped on the handle. As per usual, he’s sat outside the only proper window in his flat above Corben’s cobbler shop (it’s a decent flat, if very small with just the one room—though he doesn’t want for much so he doesn’t mind), right on the itchy, damp rooftop that overlooks the cityscape perfectly.

See, every morning, amidst the smog and clouds and drizzly pale London atmosphere, Louis wakes up when the sky is still sleeping and prepares a single cup of tea that he makes in his tiny iron kettle that’s begun to rust a bit on the bottom. (But it works like a charm and it’s never done him wrong so he’s grown kinda fond of the rusted old thing; let’s just say, if there was a fire, he’d take it with him.) Then, after his cup is filled and the kettle’s begun to cool,  he climbs out of his window that overlooks the world, creaking back the shoddy windowpane with one practiced arm, and shuffles outside, careful not to spill. It’s there that he settles himself down, allowing his body to awaken properly for the day as he blows the steam away from his cup and watches the sun slowly rise, watches London slowly awaken. He watches the stragglers pass by, one by one, their shoulders already slumped as the puffs of breath from their mouths plume like smoke. Watches as the shop owners shuffle to open up their doors, limbs still stiff from a brief night’s rest. Every morning he wakes up, alone, while the sun stretches and bleeds into the sky, warming his face.

He closes his eyes against the newly bursted beams, the cup in his hands nearly empty. The streets have almost fully awakened now, volume slowly inclining as voices gain their timbre, dogs bark, bells ring.

When he finally opens them, the sky has turned pink and purple and pale blue, gold enflaming his eyelashes as he squints against the assault of fresh sunlight. Time to go, then.

Today’s the stage work and they’ll undoubtedly need Louis’ hand for some of it; he’s one of very few that actually knows how everything works at the theater, inside and out, and he’s fit as a fiddle so he’s good for any physical labor that may (and will) arise. Plus, Liam said he’d be there, watching as he always does, even though Louis knows he probably won’t actually show up for another two or more hours because he knows how Liam is. _Never_ is he up before the sun’s fully in the sky, unless he’s attending his courses at university because, at the end of the day, he’s just a privileged lad that doesn’t have to be up at the crack of dawn unless he absolutely wants to. Which is fine, honestly, Louis would never begrudge him for it—it’s just funny, is all, how different they are. Louis loves his life, wouldn’t change it for the world; he’s sure Liam would say the same.

But, anyway.

With a serene sigh, he finishes the dregs of his tea before hoisting himself up, now-empty teacup dangling from his fingers, as he turns his back on London sun and climbs back through his window, creaking the uneven floor, ready to start the day.

**

Unsurprisingly, Liam is not at the theater when Louis arrives.

Rather, Zayn and Niall are, in their usual spots in the tenth row, settled in the red velvet chairs side by side as the stage assembles before their very eyes. Zayn looks to be an agitated portrait of perfect disarray, his hair loose and tangled, one strand fallen into his dark eyes as he smokes at a stub of cigarette and licks his lips, a long olive green scarf wound around his bony neck, suspenders loose on his thin shoulders, off-white shirt pushed to his elbows. The shadows beneath his eyes are deep and lavender, his pupils rather large. Honestly, Louis wouldn’t be surprised if he was still chemically altered or at least a bit drunk from the night before (or perhaps this morning), given his hedonistic, crazed nature and awful habits. The artist types, you know.

Niall, on the other hand, looks rested and calm, his hair combed and bright beneath his cap, waistcoat trim and fitted. His slacks fit a bit poorly and his shoes are worn with use but he’s ever the portrait of professionalism in his chair, his legs crossed as he stoically reads a rather large packet in his pale hands—

And oh, wait. That’s probably…

“Zayn’s new play?” Louis asks automatically, voice lifting an octave as he trots that much faster towards them from the back of the hall. He’s been trying to get his hands on this for _weeks_ but Zayn’s such a bloody madman about his work that he’s barely let Louis breathe a word about it, let alone come anywhere near the physical copy.

So it’s hardly startling when Zayn’s eyes immediately flick to him, fast and sharp, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Don’t come any closer,” he mutters low, voice quiet and a bit scratchy from too many cigarettes and not enough nutrition. He raises one thin, bony hand, skin gleaming golden beneath the electric glow from the stage and the gas lamps lining the aisles. “You’re not to read it yet. Stand back.”

Louis’ eyebrows raise as he makes absolutely no move to stop, far too used to Zayn’s antics. The man’s harmless. Mostly. “Oh, come on, mate. Please? Just a glance?”

“He’s fine, Zayn,” Niall murmurs peacefully, eyes never leaving the page as he lifts one hand and beckons Louis forward. As if Louis weren’t already charging ahead without hesitation.

“C’mon. Give us a look,” Louis pleads with a charming smile, plopping himself right next to Niall as tries to peer over his shoulder—before suddenly a bony hand clamps down on his arm like an iron vice. “Fuck’s sake!” he yelps, glaring up at the Zayn that’s just appeared from nowhere—quite the ghost, this gaunt figure. Demon eyes and all. “I’m gonna have to read it at some point anyway, aren’t I? What’s the harm in—“

“Absolutely not,” Zayn nearly growls, hand tightening on Louis’ arm before he stubs out his cigarette on the back of a chair, glares firmly, and marches back to his seat, sitting down with a great big huff that Louis is sure sent a pigeon flying somewhere.  “It’s to be a _surprise_. It’s an _unveiling,_ you simpleton. An artist never—“

“Here you go, Lou,” Niall interjects casually at that very moment, his blue eyes clear as the unseen sky as he plops the stack of paper into Louis’ lap unceremoniously.

Louis gapes, hands fastening protectively around the dry paper as Zayn turns an unpleasant shade of green, jaw nearly unhinging.

“How dare you,” he nearly hisses, features wrought in almost comical concern as he coils away from Niall, gripping the armrests of his seat with bone-crushing strength. “Niall, it’s not _ready_ —“

“It’s perfect as it is,” Niall overrides breezily once more, movements calm as he lights a cigarette and exhales on a ghosted smile, glancing sidelong at Zayn with unaffected blinks. “Besides, he’ll need to read it at some point, just like he said. It’s best if he reads it now, Zayn.” He sucks the cigarette, exhales again, eyes glinting through the curls of smoke, posture lazy as he reclines that much more. “This is good. It’s a brilliant piece, it should be shared.” A brief touch to the knee, almost too fast for Louis to catch as he glances up furtively from the first page. “You’ve outdone yourself again, my love. Utterly fucking brilliant.”

Unable to resist a smirk, Louis glances up as the words fall from Niall’s lips, enjoying the look of flushed pleasure that overcomes Zayn’s near-manic features. He shuffles a bit, shoulders softening as he clears his throat and tilts his gaze into the distance, the corner of his lips twitching as he quiets momentarily, hands coming to relax atop his thighs.

“It’s not,” he insists on a very quiet mumble, but his eyes briefly dart to Niall’s, smile still poking at his mouth. “But thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Niall insists back, softer than is custom, and Louis can’t help but shake his head with just how utterly _soft_ they are around each other. For two unfeeling madmen, they certainly are very tender. Too, too funny.

“If you’re done cooing sweet nothings, I’ll just get to reading this, alright?” Louis says, flicking the paper with his forefinger as he makes to stand, before suddenly the creaking sound of a door echoes against the vast walls of the hall and all heads dart to the entrance. “Well. Maybe not just yet,” Louis amends, a lazy grin forming.

“Boys!” Liam’s voice greets, bouncing around the room alongside the clunks of wood and hammers as the men dart to and fro on the stage before them, bodies fast at work. He’s grinning easily, one hand slung in his pocket as he ambles forward, wearing a bowler hat, bowtie, and stripes. Ever keen on the latest fashions, Liam’s always looking like a bit of a prat, Louis thinks. It’s endearing though, so he smiles as Liam saunters further inside. “You’ll _never_ guess what I’ve just heard from my father.”

Oh, brilliant.

Whenever Liam comes strolling in with _that_ sentence, it generally means that whatever he’s about to say will be relatively substantial, if not at least useful. Instantly, Louis perks, eyebrow rising as he hoists the script under his arm, ignoring the way Zayn’s postures has stiffed like a rod. Beside him, Niall blinks patiently, cigarette balanced between his soft, half-smiling lips.

‘Oh?” Louis prods, hopping up off his seat and settling on the back of the one in front of him, now facing Liam dead on. “What news have we today, Liam? Any scandals on the front? Surely it’s not about Zayn’s newest play?” He can’t help but slather on the poshest accent he can muster, exaggerating his tone with the same sort of gusto he’s heard from the stuffier legs of society. He likes to tease Liam a bit, given his station. He figures it’s only fair.

Beaming, Liam laughs, delighted by Louis as always. “But of course it is,” he grins, leaning against the seat in front of him, eyes dancing betwixt the three of them.

“Spit it out,” Zayn grunts monotonously, eyes steely. Niall waits.

Proudly, Liam straightens up, puffing out his chest as his hands smooth down his shirtfront. “Both leads have been cast,” he announces smugly, eyes alight as he surveys their reactions.

A small, steady hum of excitement flickers through Louis, shooting from his fingertips to his heart. He always loves discovering what big names will be arriving next, what talents and personalities he’ll be privy to. In his day, he’s seen some phenomenal acts, made some brilliant friendships, and had his breath stolen by the sheer magnitude of presence some individuals have brought to this theater. It’s fascinating and brilliant and, still, Louis can’t seem to get quite enough of it all. Being witness to acting is sheer pleasure enough; he can only imagine what it would be like to _be_ the actor.

But that’s no matter. Just  a silly dream, one he’s content to leave untouched.

“You’ve already revealed the leading man,” Louis nods, brushing his hands through the air impatiently. “But who’s our leading lady? Is it Sarah Burnhardt?”

“Wait, who’s the leading man?” Niall and Zayn ask as one, quick as whips, their eyes intent on Liam.

Grinning at the attention he holds, Liam pauses dramatically for all of three seconds (enough time for Louis to swat at him with Zayn’s play, much to the latter’s horror) before he announces proudly, “Harry Styles is his name—not Smalls, Louis, I apologize for my error. Oops.” He blushes a touch, a goofy smile alighting his features before he continues, his speech as flowery and proper as it always tries to be whenever he’s trying to impress. (Being born of privilege will do that to you—make you think your breeding can be show-cased like donning a frock. Louis finds it all very stuffy and unnecessary, especially because Liam normally speaks like a bumbling idiot and Louis wouldn’t have it any other way.) “Funnily enough, I met Mr. Styles just yesterday evening at Lady Rosmund’s!” Liam continues, eyes bright and postures straight. “Since he’s the most esteemed actor at present, it was only natural that she invited him as the guest of honor, that awful, hypocritical cow. You know how she is—hates the theater. Says it’s for the easily amused.” He scoffs. “But she had no qualms striking up conversation with him or painting on a pretty smile, I’ll tell you that mu—“

“Isn’t he new?” Zayn interrupts, eyes narrowed in contemplation as he surveys Liam. He glances to Niall sharply. “Is he new? What has he done? I’ve heard his name in the papers but I don’t recall his work.”

“Well—“ Liam starts, a bit perplexed as his smile falls, but Zayn barrels on, his limbs twitching into life as he perches on the edge of his chair, fists clenched.

“He never even auditioned,” he continues, words tumbling past his lips at a truly impressive pace. “Why did Higgins cast him on if he hasn’t even _auditioned?!”_ He’s nearly frantic now, eyes wide and blazen, but Niall still hasn’t blinked or made any sound, seemingly unbothered by Zayn’s potential breakdown beside him.

“Probably because he’s such a hot commodity,” Louis explains with a shrug, drumming his fingers across the back of the seat. “You know how it is, Malik. He’ll bring the audiences. Mr. Higgins’ new contracts always do. Besides, I wouldn’t worry over it—he’s never steered you wrong before.”

The words fall on deaf ears. “But just how the fuck am I supposed to support his role as Felix if I haven’t even seen his work?” Zayn continues to spit, his bony hands flying through the air like a puppeteer’s. “If he hasn’t seen _my_ work? This is my _masterpiece_. Niall, this can’t erupt in flame!” He sags then, frantic eyes quieting into oversized orbs of pure sadness that he casts onto Niall almost helplessly.

“I’ve heard of him,” Niall nods slowly at last, fingers playing with his chin in thought as the others watch him quietly. “Can’t say I can picture him, though. But I’ve heard the rumors and I’ve read the reviews. Taking the stage by storm, some say. Excellent voice. Eloquent. And a bit of a personality, if I’m not mistaken…?” He looks to Liam for confirmation, who nods only too eagerly.

“Quite,” he emphasizes, turning to Louis with his grin still intact. “You’ll have quite a time keeping up with this one, I think. Not once was he left to his own devices yesterday evening, always surrounded by a flocks of beautiful young women. He’s said to have been with every leading lady he’s performed with, did you know? Quite the character. Very personable, very charming, _very_ serious about his craft. Dresses like a dandy as well, given his more ostentatious fashion choices.. Must be an aesthete.” He shifts his weight as he prattles happily, hands still in his pockets. “A true peacock. Aren’t actors always peacocks? You should’ve seen his _jacket_. Forest green with fur trim! Can you imagine? The theater always attracts the most wild types.”

Scoffing, Louis shakes his head, not-so-subtly giving Liam’s own ensemble a judgmental onceover. As if he has room to talk, honestly. “Doesn’t sound too unlike yourself,” he smirks, enjoying the befuddlement that momentarily falls over Liam’s features.

“What? I don’t believe I’m very ostentatious…” he mumbles, looking down at his salmon and cream striped shirt, his tailored cream trousers, and polished leather shoes with etched engravings at the toe Not ostentatious at all.

“Oh, not even a little bit,” Louis assures with faux-gravity as Zayn snorts under his breath and Niall chuckles.

“Well. Regardless,” Liam continues, brushing the topic aside with a lazy wave of the hand, “I spoke but three words to the man before he was whisked away by Lady Rosmund yet again—even though she completely monopolized him all night, it was obscene, just mad—and I was horribly disappointed by it.”

“Disappointed?” Louis questions, tilting his head, the smoke from Niall’s cigarette tickling his nostrils. Behind him, the stage clambers with movement, boards clunking and being hammered together, the smell of fresh paint wafting in and out.

Liam sighs, flicking a bit of lint off his arm. “He didn’t seem to know who I was, nor did he offer up any information about himself.” Dear lord. “Though, he was _very_ agreeable,” he adds thoughtfully, tilting his head. “They say he has a unique character and, after last night, I can believe it one-hundred percent. Did you know he walked down all of Piccadilly with a sunflower in hand? For he mere fun of it? He’s an odd sort but they all claim he’s brilliant. The best they’ve seen, even!”

Despite himself, Louis can’t help but grin at the prospect, a wonder filling his chest. The best they say? Louis’ seen a lot of talent during his time here. He’s heard the rave reviews and seen the sold-out performances. But to work with someone so greatly esteemed? Someone who the likes of even Lady Rosmund admires? He can’t help but itch at the prospect of meeting him, seeing him in action. “Wow…” he exhales under his breath, momentarily lost in his own sense of grandeur.

“Hm. I’ll believe it when I see it,” is all Zayn replies, lips still hardened when Louis glances at him, his entire aura still radiating heat and agitation. But then again, to be fair, Zayn’s always radiating heat and agitation.  

“Is he meant to stay?” Niall asks, crossing his legs. “Does he have a contract?”

Liam nods. “For a year. It’s already been signed, even.”

“And the leading lady?” Niall continues to prod, just as Zayn’s eyes flash. “Who’s to be Ambrosia?”

All eyes flicker to Liam.

“Ah,” he replies delicately, shuffling his weight as his eyes glance from Louis to Zayn to Niall, then back to Louis. There’s a shade of worry in there and Louis folds his arms over his chest, feeling the bad news radiating off of Liam’s shoulders already. “About that.”

Zayn turns white as a sheet. “What? What is it?” he nearly yelps, fists re-clenching tight; his skin is pulled taught over his nimble bones, like stretched fabric being tanned, and Louis almost winces at the force of it all because Zayn always seems to be so delicately powerful. “It’s not Lillie Musgrove, is it? Tell me that it’s not. On my honor, I will rip up that script and burn it to the ground if Higgins has _dared_ to cast Lillie bloody Musgrove in _my_ play—“

Placatingly, Niall settles a calm, pale hand atop Zayn’s now trembling thigh, his body nearly quivering with suppressed agitation as Liam blinks worriedly at him before giving Louis a significant look of bewilderment.

“No, no, of course not,” he rushes to ease as he holds up his hands, his boyish features wide-eyed and trepid. “You’ve never heard of her! She’s new. Never acted before.”

Silence falls.

Did he just say… Never _acted_ before?

Louis bites the cushion of his lip as his eyes immediately slide over to Zayn.

“I’m sorry. Did you just imply that my leading lady has never once performed on a stage?” Zayn asks delicately, eyes sharpening into points. Niall sucks in a quiet breath, sharing a long look with Louis who, really, can only pray that Zayn doesn’t combust on the spot. It would be a terrible mess.

Meanwhile, Liam looks nearly petrified with terror as he continues to stutter, his posture slackening with every word, his thick eyebrows twisted up and unsure. The poor thing. “Well. Um. Perhaps. Yes,” he laments before rushing to continue before Zayn can screech to the heavens. “But her father’s funding the play, you see! And he’s really very wealthy! He’s offered to go above and beyond the usual budget, so it’s all working out rather—“

“Does she at least know how to read?” Zayn asks coldly and Liam’s eyes widen as his mouth shuts.

Louis sighs, completely undeterred by Zayn’s temperamental nature and steely countenance. “What’s her name then, Li?”

Liam’s eyes immediately latch onto Louis. (Though, occasionally, they glance uneasily back at Zayn.) “Er—Miss Smith. Sophia Smith. She’s said to be a very beautiful young woman—“

“I don’t care if she looked like a damn toad so long as she were proficient in her skill,” Zayn bristles, cold and sharp and metallic as he stares Liam down. “Give me all the beautiful leading ladies you want, Liam, but I’ll throw them to the wolves if they’re anything less than magnificent on my stage, reading my words.”

Another brief silence falls, save for the pounding of carpentry from the stage and the sound of Louis tapping his foot offbeat. He has to bite back a small laugh at the look of sheer horror on Liam’s face—he’s always been scared of Zayn.

“Right,” he exhales after a moment, completely unsure and looking ready to dash at any moment. “Well. Let’s hope she’s a natural then?”

This time Louis does laugh, loud and unapologetic, as he throws back his head, cackles echoing against the tall, gilt walls while Zayn’s lips purse and Niall’s own mouth twitches with hidden amusement. They couldn’t be more different, the three of them.

Fortunately though, Niall’s serenity anchors them all, his cigarette dwindling down as he uncrosses his legs and half-smiles, his bright youthful features soft beneath the amber lights. “The read-through will tell us all we need to know,” he says comfortably, perhaps even gently to Liam. “When should we expect them to arrive? Miss Smith and Mr. Styles?”

Faced with the familiarity of cordiality, Liam relaxes almost instantaneously, latching onto Niall like a lifeboat as his cheeks un-redden. “The day after next,” he replies steadily, swiftly. He still isn’t quite smiling yet. “They’ll be arriving here early so as to be given a tour of the theater and then, from there, they’ll be given their scripts. We’ll conduct the other castings as custom. I’m sure it will be painless.”

“I’m sure,” Zayn replies flatly before launching out of his seat and storming off down the aisle, a loose end of his scarf trailing after him, bony legs carrying him as swift as the wind.

For a moment, they all stare, mouths lightly agape; all save for Niall, who stubs out his cigarette, completely unaffected. Louis’ always enjoyed their dynamic immensely, has always been fond of how drastic Zayn can be and how simple Niall responds to it all. They just work so bloody well and there’s something entirely refreshing about it.

“Was it something I said?” Liam asks worriedly, staring after Zayn’s retreating figure with wide eyes.

But Niall brushes him away with a hand, expression easy. “Of course it was. But he’ll come ‘round. I’ll fetch him if he’s missing for more than five minutes.”

Louis can only laugh as he shakes his head and Liam chuckles in return, unsure, while the stage assembles, bit by bit, behind them. And Louis continues to smile as he opens the first page of Zayn’s play, ready to read, ready to start, ready for the theater’s newest production to begin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry's gonna arrive in the next chapter :) Yay! I'm exciteeddd! 
> 
> Thank you for reading and being generally wonderful always. Your comments and kudos and messages are really, really kind and incredible. Honestly. I'm smothering all of you to my chest and holding you. I love you. Thank you. 
> 
> mizzwilde on tumblr if you want to talk or tell me I'm trash <3


	3. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The leads arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always feel like I should remind everyone that I'm making everything up. The plays, the locations, the realities--everything. Because I'm lazy and wilde and it's fun this way :)

"Initiation" by The Souljazz Orchestra

 **

Miss Smith is terrible. And she hasn’t even acted yet.

Meanwhile, Harry Styles is nowhere to be found.

Things aren’t boding well, to say the least.

See, when Louis had arrived today, the theater had been positively buzzing with excitement and anticipation, just as it always is whenever the actors and actresses arrive. He’d been smiling upon entry, the hubbub of bodies passing him surging some life into his tired eyes and he breathed it all in—from the smell of fresh carpentry to the wafts of different perfumes flitting by him, blanketed in cigarettes. He’d missed this, the organized chaos of productions; whenever there’s a break between shows, he always feels a touch sad once the charms of a quiet theater wear off. Sure, he enjoys his time alone as much as any other man (reading as many books as he can get his hands on, meandering around the shops, bantering with Liam, Niall, and Zayn) but, truth be told, Louis is happiest when he’s surrounded by that which he loves: acting. Theater. Productions. He positively _thrives_ in it.

Thus, today’s been at the forefront of his mind for weeks—especially since Zayn’s play has proven to be positively phenomenal, much to nobody’s surprise. Louis’ already read it at least five times, pouring over the now-wilted pages with a fervency that Liam had teased him of and Zayn had prided himself on. “Now, _he_ understands what the true nature of art is,” he’d said approvingly, nodding his head as he pinched a cigarette and squinted into the abyss. “We like him, Niall. Louis is one of our best.” “Yes, darlin’,” Niall had agreed absently, scribbling notes in the margins of his own copy. Teacups sat haphazardly at their feet (though, everyone knows that it’s not tea that’s in there) and Louis had beamed, proud as can be as he effortlessly recited his favorite parts, perched on the back of a chair, his feet swinging merrily as he clutched the script. Zayn’s eyes shone something lighter than black for once and Liam just snorted his amusement and fiddled with his cufflinks, bored.

It really is a grand play though, one that makes Louis close his eyes to envision and bite the inside of his cheek when he remembers he’s going to actually _see_ it, _live_ it. It’s the tale of a young prince named Felix who is very, very sad because soon he must marry and take the throne. Until one night, he sneaks out of the castle and attends a carnival in disguise, where he falls in love with a dancer named Ambrosia. He becomes entranced with her, utterly mad with love; however, unbeknownst to him, she is a sorceress! In order to prove his love, Ambrosia has young Felix undergo a series of trials, in order to judge his character and strength of spirit. After he’s sufficiently proven himself, she grants him one wish; naturally, he wishes to be with her forever. And so they live happily ever after and he gives up his life of royalty. Proper romantic.

“I need the perfect Felix, Louis,” Zayn had said in a low tone, lips chapped as he clutched Louis’ arms with that same shocking strength he procures from seemingly nowhere. “Not just anybody can portray the passion. The _love_. The near-insanity of his adoration for Ambrosia! He is almost _manic_ with the feeling, Louis.”

“Alright, yes,” Louis nodded, glancing down at where Zayn’s hands were gripping him unforgivingly, a glint in the man’s eye. “I see that, Zayn.”

“But do you? Because it’s brilliant, Louis. Because, you see, it’s a selfless love! He gives up everything for her? Don’t you _see?”_

“Yes, Zayn, I see. Now please release me. You’re cutting off my circulation.”

“Oh.” Zayn blinked out of his reverie, immediately releasing Louis. “My apologies.” And then he drifted away, scarf trailing after him.

So, needless to say, today’s sort of a big deal. Which is why it’s just a little bit concerning when Miss Smith arrives and Mr. Styles does not.

“He’s going to be late,” a young boy squeaks, brow pinched and worried as he wrings his hat in his pale hands, staring up at Mr. Higgins in horror and carefully avoiding Zayn’s negative energy.

“What did he just say?” Zayn immediately asks Niall, words lighting like embers and daring to combust into flame. Niall doesn’t respond, just stares steadily at the boy, hands in his pockets. His eyes are shaded beneath the brim of his newsboy cap, obscuring his emotions from view and thus making Zayn panic all the bit more.

Louis can’t even find it in himself to laugh at the spectacle; instead he just stares, a bit dumbfounded.

Actors are never late on the introduction day. Never.

“Do you know why?” Mr. Higgins asks, frown clear on his face, but his voice is calm and it makes the boy exhale his relief.

“No, sir, I’m sorry, sir,” the boy shakes his head, dipping his posture. “Just heard word that he was going to be late.”

Again, Mr. Higgins opens his mouth to reply—until he’s suddenly cut off by Liam, jogging forth with excitement dancing in his eyes, grin open and crystal bright.

“Father!” he breathes upon reaching him, nodding only briefly to Louis before he continues. “Miss Smith’s just arrived.”

“Right,” Mr. Higgins nods, eyes sharpening into a more focused professionalism as he rubs his palms together briefly before clapping Liam’s back with a warm smile. “Thank you, Liam,” he murmurs before making his way forward; he looks the very portrait of confidence and Louis can’t help but admire him immensely. Obviously, the man’s one of the kindest he’s known, given his charitable and almost father-like relationship with Louis but, even moreso, he’s a firmly confident sort and Louis can’t help but admire the grace and professionalism of his power. ‘Noble’ is probably the right word for him. Louis watches his retreating figure with admiration; a lesser man would be having a fit if one of their newly-contracted employees was late. Yet Mr. Higgins—Paul—just rolls with the punches.

A good man.

“I hear she’s beautiful,” Liam whispers, now sidled up to Louis. He’s adorned in periwinkle and ivory, a sprig of baby’s breath pinned to his lapel, and he’s carrying a cane for no reason other than its apparent aesthetic appeal. Louis tries not to smirk, biting his lips together as he raises his brows at Liam’s brightly lit eyes. Liam always fawns over the actresses just like he always insists he doesn’t.

“Don’t you hear that _everyone’s_ beautiful?” Louis mutters, amused. He nudges Liam’s side, digging his elbow sharp. “We’ll need to put horse blinders on you one of these days, mate. Can’t have you distracting Zayn’s leading lady.”

“If you can call her that,” Zayn mumbles beneath his breath, earning him a sharp look from Niall.

And then she arrives.

With barely suppressed smiles on their faces, everybody assembles, effortlessly lining up beneath the stage with all the practiced grace of seasoned professionals. The anticipation is tangible, Louis can almost taste it even (right along with the dust and the paint and the oil and perfume) and, though he is secretly rather disappointed in not meeting his own charge at this point in time, he can’t deny his excitement at meeting the _leading lady_. There is a weight to the name, a grace to the profession that no other body on the stage can possess.

Louis extends his posture, presses his arms to his sides, and watches as she enters the room.

Delicately, almost hesitantly, she walks into the hall, her father behind her, his eyes surveying every minute detail around them. All eyes are glued to her.

Liam was right—she _is_ beautiful. She wears a pale pink frock that rests upon her shoulders gently, engulfing her frame eloquently, the fabric etched in pastel green and yellow flowers that are almost whimsical, childlike. Her waist is slim, her large eyes brown, her wrists nimble and soft, peppered with perfume. Delicate jewelry lay on her neck, her hair thick and wound up like spun chocolate, her smile large and glorious, painted a soft shade of red. She is the perfect portrait of a young lady in the 1890’s, Louis supposes; he wonders if Liam’s heart has stopped.

“Miss Smith,” Mr. Higgins introduces warmly, smiling down at her with polite interest before he gestures to the crew assembled before her. “We are honored to have you here at the Savoy Theatre. Allow me to introduce you to our crew”—a sweeping hand encompasses them all—“and your stage. We, of course, will acquaint you with your rooms and staff shortly and if you wish to voice any concerns or questions—“

“When will I get to start?” she interjects then, her smile as bright as her voice is loud—which is _very_ loud. And rather…jarring, one could say. Perhaps shrill.

Louis swallows, glancing sidelong at Zayn, who’s just developed a rather prominent vein in his neck. Voices are Zayn’s _thing_ , you see; he always insists that his cast must have “a euphonic song in their tone in order to adequately carry the words”. (Direct quote. Louis still teases him about it to this day.)

And Miss Smith sounds like a seagull.  

Louis bites his lips.

Taking her rudeness in stride, Mr. Higgins replies, voice as calm as an untouched pond. “Tomorrow, my lady.”

Her smile dims just a fraction, her eyes never once glancing towards the crew. “That long? I must confess I’m rather disappointed. I rather hoped to start today. Oh, couldn’t we start today? Surely, it would be no trouble. I’m sure one of these men could scrounge up a script from somewhere.” Her words are breezy, spoiled, and trite, complemented by the errant flicking of her slender hand.

No, this does not bode well at all.

Still, Louis can’t help but snigger under his breath at the way Zayn’s eyes are currently bulging.

“That is not custom, my lady,” the latter suddenly grits out with all the smooth venom of a poisonous flower as he steps forth, all manners forgotten. Beside him, Niall’s mouth twitches, his blue eyes still assessing Miss Smith. “Scripts are always handed out the second day, when we begin the read-through—“

“But how am I supposed to play a part that I know nothing of?” she asks with confusion and mild shock, eyes wide and blinking. Her eyelashes are painted dark. Pursing her lips, she looks to her father, a gruff and portly man, his pocket watch glimmering gold, his collar starched. “Father, you said I could read it.”

Nodding, Mr. Smith shoots his dark eyebrows in Zayn’s direction, meaty neck tinged red. He looks a bit like a stuffed pig, Louis reckons thoughtfully. “I’m sure you could procure a script from somewhere, Mr. Malik. Surely, that’s the least you could do, considering the great favor my daughter is doing for you and your play.”

At that, Zayn actually laughs, loud and sudden like a rabid dog’s dark after being cornered in the streets. And Louis is just about to intervene—that laugh only spells trouble, Zayn hardly ever laughs—when suddenly Niall begins to speak, his smooth-as-Irish-whiskey voice washing over the room in soft auburn.

”My deepest apologies, Mr. Smith,” he says easily, stepping up to the man and shaking his hand before nodding his head to Miss Smith, a respectful and boyish smile on his lips. “If it were in my power, I’d procure every script imaginable! But, I’m afraid, we’ve not received them quite yet, as Mr. Malik has only just turned them into the presses for distribution. Again, I must apologize, for we’d have made arrangements for Miss Smith, had we known otherwise.”

Well, then. That was…smooth. Then again, that’s Niall in a nutshell; there’s always something to be said for some good Irish bullshit.

Louis grins, watching Zayn roll his eyes.

Mr. Smith, however, appears sufficiently charmed. “Oh, no trouble at all, my good man,” he grunts out but it’s a happy grunt, a pleased grunt. The kind a well-fed pig would emit. “One day won’t kill her, will it, my dear Sophie?”

Perhaps it would, given her horrified expression.

“One day? An entire day, father?” She stares up at the man, forlorn as can be before she exhales a dramatic sigh, her shrill voice calming. “It’s quite a wait, is all…” she mutters, disappointment clear in her posture. But then suddenly her lady’s maid is mumbling something to her, brightening her entire countenance, and Miss Smith beams once more, clapping her hands together; at least she’ll be quite stunning beneath the stage lights physically, if nothing else. “May I see my dressing room?” she asks in what Louis assumes is meant to be a polite tone.

At the abrupt change of topic, Niall visibly relaxes. “Of course!” he nods, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. “Yes, absolutely, of course! If you’ll just follow Mr. Higgins here, we will show you the way, Miss Smith.”

(As per his demands, Niall always shadows the new actors and actresses when he first meets them. He’s never fully explained why, always just looked Louis dead in the eye and merely said, “A painter’s gotta sample his new brushes, hasn’t he?” and that was always it, despite the words meaning little to no sense. But Zayn did attempt to explain it once, claiming that Niall had “an artist’s eye” and that he needed to “feel” his actors before he directed them. To be quite blunt, Louis’ convinced they both just drink too much.)

“Wonderful,” Miss Smith smiles, her voice loud and trilling, before allowing herself to be lead away, chatting all the while.

Louis glances at Zayn, whose fist is currently pushed against his lips, eyes watching her retreating figure like a hawk. “Nervous?” he mumbles below his breath.

Quick as lightning, Zayn’s eyes flash to him. He gives one curt shake of the head. “Horrorstruck,” he amends.

Of course he is. Always dramatic, this one.

Smiling, Louis shakes his head, looking back in the direction of Miss Smith’s retreating figure. “She might not be all that bad, you know. Could be an unexpected natural.”

“I’m sorry, have you heard her speak?” Zayn asks just as swiftly, lips barely moving. “She sounds like a bird caught in a carriage wheel.” At this, Louis can’t help but laugh, startled, before quickly covering his mouth when several pairs of eyes flicker towards him.  “And if she plans to move across my stage with those large, graceless cow steps of hers, then she has another thing coming.”

And then Zayn storms away, making a beeline to his usual spot in the tenth row.

This time, Louis’ able to stifle his laugh into his hand.

**

Miss Smith is still being escorted around the theater. And Mr. Styles still hasn’t arrived.

“I wonder if he’s trying to make an impression?” Liam questions excitedly, head turning every which way as he jiggles his leg, hands in pockets. They’re leaning against the stage, low murmurs filling the room as discussions and contracts and plans are exchanged amongst bodies; everybody looks tired but official, scribbling notes and shaking hands, laughing coquettishly, swapping cigars. The set’s nearly finished now, the carpenters gathering their tools in dirty hands. “From what I’ve seen of him, it would hardly be surprising. You know he’s been seen with Lillie Langtry, don’t you?” He licks his lips, fervor on his breath as he leans closer conspiratorially and grins. His lips are shiny. “Everyone’s talking about it. He’s _very_ famous.”

The way Liam speaks sometimes is so lavishly ostentatious, his words spilling over with untold gossip and intrigue. It’s fairly ridiculous considering he giggles every time he hears the word ‘bosom’. A child in a man’s body.

“Is he?” Louis questions a little wryly despite the small blip of intrigue in his veins. Still, he shuffles closer to Liam, ears straining. “So tell me more, then. I want to know. What plays has he done? What’s his style? What’s he famous _for?”_

For a moment, Liam contemplates the words, tongue caught between his teeth as his brows furrow and he squints into the distance thoughtfully. “Weeell,” he begins, dragging out the vowel. “He made it big after he performed as Cyril in Bernstein’s ‘ _A Man Without A Mask’_ , I believe. And surely you’ve heard of his role in Cox’s ‘ _Something Great’?_ Everyone’s still talking about that one, I’m sure you must have heard something, Louis. He took the world quite by storm.”

Wait. Wait, wait, wait. _A Man Without A Mask?_

All this time, Louis’ been aware of the fame Mr. Styles seems to possess yet he’s never been made aware of the fact that he was made famous for _that_ play? Dear god, he needs new friends.

Louis stares at Liam, eyes widening as he processes. “ _’A Man Without A Mask’?”_ he repeats, a newfound eagerness steadily filling his body. So few have managed to best that play, so few have managed to perform it at all! And yet… “He played Cyril, you say?” he continues, voice pitched in excitement as he straightens, turning his full attention to Liam. “Bloody hell, Liam, that’s my favorite play! Was he good, I wonder? It’s a very taxing roll, I can only imagine—“

“I’ve heard nothing but praise,” Liam shrugs, still jiggling his leg. He keeps checking the door, no doubt waiting for Mr. Styles’ arrival.

Louis can’t say he’s in a much different position now.

“He must be brilliant,” he nearly whispers, awed at the prospect of the man’s talent. And he’ll get to work with him! Dress him, converse with him, iron his clothes and clear the dozens of flowers that will no doubt be cluttered atop his dressing room tables. Usher him into Caroline’s arms to be dressed, Louise’s arms to be painted. Louis Tomlinson is about to be working in close confines with a potential legend (he played _Cyril!)_ and, despite the buzz of excitement still surrounding Miss Smith’s arrival, he can’t help but feel really bloody impatient right now.

Absently, Louis chews on a fingernail, his own eyes drifting to the door alongside Liam’s.

“He’ll probably make a show of his arrival,” Liam muses, glancing at Louis. “All of the big ones do. Father hates it. Says it’s unnecessary and vain.”

“It _is_ vain,” Louis nods, straining to hear a door open, an arrival of a carriage, a cluttering of horse hooves making to stop. Anything. “But perhaps it’s necessary when you spend your life being stared at.”

Liam only hums, posture lofty and leg still jangling. 

“When am I to be fitted for my costumes?” a loud and piercingly feminine voice trills through the air suddenly, sending them both jumping.

Louis spins around, feeling a touch of sympathy as everyone collectively winces in the face of Miss Smith. Poor girl—she can’t help that she’s a bit…vocally unhinged. He makes sure to offer his softest smile in her direction, even if she hasn’t once paid him any mind during her visit. Still, though. Poor thing.

Niall blinks, clearly startled as he turns around from his low-murmured conversation with Zayn, teacup in hand. It’s a bit early to be drinking, even for him; Louis can’t help but think their newest actress has got something to do with it.

“Miss?” he asks, unsure. Niall’s typically a very even-tempered man, maybe even impassive at times. At this moment however, he’s looking at Miss Smith as if she were sprouting tentacles. “I’m sorry?”

“My costumes,” she articulates louder, pleased as pie as she twirls on the spot, showcasing her dainty figure and fine attire. Clearly very young still. Probably no more than eighteen, if that. “When will I be fitted?” she asks Niall, staring at him intently.

Beside him, Zayn looks ready to shatter glass, his knuckles white on the delicate china he clasps. He’s just about to open his mouth in response—no doubt to unleash some subtle fury—but Niall is quicker to the punch, subtly nudging Zayn in the ribs as he takes a step forth and speaks with robust volume. Niall’s always been quick on his feet.

“Mrs. Watson is head of costumes, m’lady. She’ll probab—“

“Who’s that? Will you take me to her?”

Eager, eager.

Niall looks mildly overwhelmed. Zayn looks intensely murderous.

“Weren’t you just given a tour of the theater?” the latter asks sourly, his body tilted away from her as if she were a particularly unappealing pile of refuse.

“Yes, of course,” she sighs impatiently, hands now clasped together in loftiness. “And it was enchanting! But I must know who Mrs. Watson is. Take me to her. I want to find her and I don’t know where to start. She wasn’t on the tour, I’m afraid.” Her words are mournful, her large eyes sad and searching, lips filled into a pout.

“Oh, perish the thought.”

“Zayn,” Niall warns, low and smooth, but he clearly doesn’t know how to handle the eager young lady before him either.

It’s uncomfortable, yes, but Louis can’t help but find it highly entertaining. Even so, he’s a charitable sort, so he coughs out his laugh before striding forward, abandoning a doe-eyed Liam and making his way to Niall’s side, smile radiant.

“I can take you to her,” Louis offers amiably, bowing his head at Miss Smith.

Her brown eyes fall to him for the first time, surprise widening them, her lips parting in a delighted ‘o’. She beams, already nodding eagerly. “Perfect. This young man will do just fine.” She smiles wider, eyes still intent on Louis as she takes a small step towards him.

“This way, m’lady,” Louis ushers politely, throwing a wink in Niall and Zayn’s relieved direction. He’s a saint. Saint Tomlinson. (Has a ring, doesn’t it?) “I’m sure you will get along famously with Mrs. Watson. A young lady with your beauty will delight her, I’m sure.”

Let it be known that, while Niall is the king of charm and bullshit, Louis is the prince. It’s one of the few perks of having been blessed with a sharp wit and having nothing else to do with it.

“Oh!” Miss Smith giggles, cheeks pinkening very softly as she walks that much closer, smiling at Louis from beneath her lashes. “Why, thank you! I hope she gives me beautiful dresses.”

“Of course,” Louis replies easily, leading her further behind the stage. “She will match your beauty with her own. Promise.” And he throws a wink in there for good measure, eliciting a delighted smile and a blush from the young lady before he guides her to Caroline’s room.

All the while as everybody waits for Harry Styles.

**

It’s as Louis finally makes his way back to the group clustered below the stage, that Liam nearly crashes into him, gripping his arm tightly and beaming.

“He’s here!” he shout-whispers, teeth wide like pearls and fingers digging into the thin, rolled-up cotton of Louis’ shirt. He smells strongly of citrus and his cane’s been carelessly hooked over his forearm, forgotten.

Louis blinks, startled as the information sinks in; he swallows, bloodstream bubbling, lips quirking slowly. “Finally,” he mutters but he’s smiling, allowing himself to be dragged up to the stage and through the back at a truly alarming speed. They must be in a rush?

“Now, father’s very eager for his stay here, Louis,” Liam continues, his voice loud as it echoes through the dark corners and twists and turns of backstage, his shiny shoes squeaking on the floorboards. The curtains and ropes hang heavily around them, the smell of dust and wood-varnish much more potent. He drags Louis by his arm, hyperactive and bouncing like a small dog, and Louis can only stare and listen, feeling somewhat bewildered by the sudden rush of everything. Today had been so slow, so dragged-on and sluggish.

But now everything feels like its overflowing. He loves it.

“You can’t scare him, alright?” Liam continues, glancing back at him. “I know you like to talk ‘n’ all, and you make more friends than not, but don’t overwhelm him!” His hand is warm where it’s pressed into Louis’ arm, pulling and pulling, joy in the crinkles of his eyes and the vowels of his words. “I know you always get excitable, asking too many questions and forgetting your station. But be respectful, Louis! Father will have all of our heads if Styles ends up leaving or, worse, ruins our reputation. Please just kiss his arse, do your job, and slather on that charm of yours, alright?”

They push past the main dressing room’s door—the one Louis’ always in, the one the leading man is always in—and amble inside. The lamps are all lit, their glow illuminating the wooden panes and the soft reflection of the mirror on the vanity. Everything’s clean and orderly, the hangers empty on the rack, waiting to be strewn with costumes. The drawers are empty, the brushes clean and lined up on a cloth.

It’s ready. Everything’s ready.

Louis swallows down his jitters, meeting Liam’s very bright eyes as he turns around, his arm finally being released.

“Just try to make a good first impression, yeah?” Liam begs, but it’s more obligatory than it is cautionary, his smile stretched across his face. They’ve had countless ‘talks’ like these over the years; it’s more routine than anything, even if Mr. Styles is a bit bigger of a deal than any of the other talents they’ve had. “He’s a genius. Very clever, can keep up with the best of them. Very charming—did I mention? These famous types always like to be heard, so just listen to him, just let him do this thing. Be obedient and not too snarky,” he adds, pointing his finger accusingly. Louis smiles innocently. “I know you’ll do a good job, mate. Good luck with him. Hope he’s not too much of a handful!”

And with one last wink and well-bred grin, Liam’s gone, closing the door with a soft click behind him, taking the whirlwind with him.

The room settles into sudden silence. Louis just stares, very aware of his limp arms and the shadows flickering on the walls.

Alright, so. That was a lot at once.

But this is exciting, this is fun, this is the _beginning_ and everything’s about to start rolling forward.

And Mr. Styles is going to be walking through that door at any moment.

Louis grins, running fingers through his hair as he gives himself a quick onceover in the mirror, adjusting his suspenders, smoothing down his shirt, and brushing his cheeks smooth with the palms of his hands. He’s about to meet the most famous actor of his time, a man who played the very daunting roll of Cyril Balzac in Louis’ favorite play of all time, and he’s about to be his _valet_ for the next _year_. Three hundred sixty-five days.

To say he’s nervous would be an understatement. But, then again, he’s always nervous when he meets his new actors.

It’s just as Louis straightens that he hears the beginnings of shuffling beyond the door. Voices low, drifting. Punctuated by laughter, punctuated by boards squeaking. Words chirping, in and out.

He adjusts the weight of his feet, stands up straighter. In a last minute decision, he darts to the back of the room, standing beside the vanity in a posture he hopes is inviting yet politely reserved—perfect for his station. He folds his hands in front of him, loose at the wrists as his fingers gently cling, licking his lips and broadening his shoulders.

The voices are increasing in volume, footsteps coming closer. He can hear Mr. Higgins, Niall. Some other voices.

He straightens his feet, feeling his heels press into the floor. His neck itches but he’s afraid to relieve it, lest everybody walks in while he’s mid-itch. That would be awkward, wouldn’t it? Nah, he’ll just wait. Just wait out the itch.

The shuffling gets louder, the noise bubbling up every second.

Louis’ fingers tighten around each other.

“…and couldn’t be happier about it. Ah, yes, and here we are, Mr. Styles,” Mr. Higgins’ voice now drifts at full volume, footsteps coming to a stop. Louis’ heart slows, his teeth sinking into the inside cushion of his lip. His temples feel warm, damp from the heat of the gaslamps. “This is to be your dressing room, right through here...”

Louis swallows, standing to his full height as the door swings open. He grins, stretching his lips over his teeth before he realizes that he probably appears a bit eager, and quiets his mouth into a small upturn. Dammit. He’s never been good at restraining himself.

He’s just about to chastise himself further, before suddenly his eyes settle onto the men before him.

Or, more honestly, the man.

The one with dark hair, long and curled like overflowing ivy, swept grandly away from a face that is pale and angular, wide in youth and graceful in detail. Green eyes that almost appear grey, lit up like stage lights, widening as they peer back at Louis with something he can’t quite label. Beneath them sit a strong nose and very beautiful lips—better than Miss Smith’s, so much better—parted on a word, perhaps an intake of breath, as the men around him continue to move and talk, animated, all the while as he remains suddenly suspended, it seems. He has a noble chin, if chins can be noble; Louis is most sure that they can be. Cheekbones that will stand the test of time. Broad frame, bedecked in a rich, forest green coat and fur collar (Liam’s words echo somewhere in Louis’ mind, dim and warbled), dressed in all black, everything looking… Well. Remarkable. Luxurious but subtle. Timeless.

The man is beautiful, frozen in time like a portrait as he stares at Louis, Mr. Higgins blathering beside him. He looks to be made for the stage, made for art itself. What a _vision_.

Louis is slightly breathless.

“Hello,” he blurts, unable to heed Liam’s warnings because his body is warm with shock, admiration. Mr. Styles is regal, so _beautiful_. He creates such a natural impression, much like Liam had claimed.

But, even as the men surrounding him quiet, Mr. Styles just continues to stare at Louis, impassive and quiet, lips still parted. He doesn’t move a muscle, his face giving absolutely nothing away.

Alright, then.

Louis shifts awkwardly when it becomes apparent that he won’t be getting a response.

“Mr. Styles, this is Louis Tomlinson, your valet,” a saving grace suddenly pipes up, shattering the fragility of the room. It’s Mr. Higgins—bless him. Louis finds his breath again, chest filling with a shaky inhale as he clings to his smile, keeping his posture stiff. “He’ll be here to assist you with anything you need, of course. Since he’s assigned specifically for you, you will hold precedence with him, and I’m sure you will find him to be both gracious and helpful in response.” Mr. Higgins slides a warm grin over to Louis, who quickly returns it, still feeling a bit stunned and squeamish, a bit confused, as Mr. Styles just stands there, chiseled from marble and draped in luxurious cloth.

Alright. So, clearly, he’s not quite as vivacious in nature as Liam had made him out to be. Maybe he was so taken with the man’s beauty that he just…projected a bit? Because Mr. Styles definitely still isn’t moving, even though the introduction has been made, definitely hasn’t spoken, and—Louis is quite sure—he definitely hasn’t even blinked.

It’s a little concerning, to be honest.

“I look forward to working with you,” Louis tries, tilting his head and smiling a bit gentler before bowing it ever so slightly. He means to be respectful but kind. Perhaps Mr. Styles is shy? Maybe? “I’ve heard wonderful things about you, truly wonderful.”

He’s definitely spoken too much already, considering he’s just a valet. But Mr. Higgins certainly doesn’t mind and Mr. Styles… Well. He still hasn’t said anything.

But he blinks now, just a soft, almost watery, sweep of the lashes, and his lips close and reopen, his throat bumping with the movement of a swallow. There’s no animosity in his posture, not even in his gaze—just something wide and startled and bright.

What the hell is even wrong?

Louis’ smile fades, Mr. Higgins’ own mirroring it, eyes glancing between the two. A little helpless, Louis looks to him, unsure of what he’s done to cause such a reaction. Or lack of reaction, really.

Fortunately, Mr. Higgins looks anything but reprimanding; rather, he just appears as confused as Louis.

“Er—come, then, Mr. Styles. We still have much to show you,” he rushes, sweeping any awkwardness under the rug as he jostles them all out of the room. “Now, if you just follow me—“

And then Mr. Styles is swept away, Mr. Higgins speaking as swiftly as his movements, and Louis is just about to collapse dejectedly onto the chair beside him, disappointment wracking his body and brain _(what did he do??)_ —

When suddenly he feels eyes on him and he looks up.

Mr. Styles is looking back at him.

He’s being ushered away by Mr. Higgins still, the man’s voice too loud and too chipper (obviously uncomfortable and Louis can’t blame him, he’s in the same boat) but Styles is looking back over his shoulder, watching Louis as they depart; his face is indefinable, unreadable. And though it’s something far from unpleasant, Louis doesn’t know what it _means_ , just watches as the man casts penetrating, almost curious, eyes back at him, before he’s swiftly pulled around the corner, vanishing from sight.

It’s then that Louis slumps to his seat, feeling just a touch dejected. Really fucking dejected.

“Well, that was horrible,” he mutters into his palms.

And it really was, wasn’t it?

He just wishes he knew what went wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments :) I've been working a lot lately because I need to fund my concert addiction so my posting may be sporadic for awhile. Or maybe it won't, we'll see! 
> 
> Also how about that Drag Me Down video???? Bless.
> 
> Love you, thank you :) tumblr = mizzwilde


	4. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Styles is strange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random reminder that everything is fiction, pure fiction. Peace, friends.

_Mysteries of Life_ by Jorge Quintero

**

It’s been over two days since Louis has been Harry Styles’ valet and he still has yet to have a normal conversation with the man.

So things are going wonderfully.

After their less-than-momentous introduction, Louis had taken Liam’s advice (“Just do a good job—be quiet but approachable, you know? Encourage work!”), trying to be on his very best and meekest behavior, hands at his sides, smile on his face, and posture rod-straight. His mum would’ve been proud, he’s sure.

And yet Harry Styles paid no mind.

Instead, the highly-acclaimed media sensation was escorted everywhere that Louis _wasn’t_ , whisked about in a whirlwind as he was introduced to every soul, offered every beverage, every cigar, every biscuit, _everything_ the Savoy had to offer. And so Louis (unable to not-so-patiently maintain his station in the dressing room because he’s always been awfully curious and a bit sneaky, perhaps) sidled out from behind the invisibility of backstage, peering out into the side corridor as he eavesdropped upon the scene at hand. Because _this_ is where the action was—not with the dust bunnies collected at the wardrobe’s feet, where Louis had just spent the last two horribly long hours.

Standing in the corridor were Mr. Styles and Liam, swept up in conversation at the time, surrounded by a few other crew members and officials that Louis always recognizes but never remembers the names of. And it was…well.

It was normal and calm and formal yet pleasantly relaxed and it was bloody _daunting_ to see, is what it was.

Because there, amongst the throng of curiously bright-eyed onlookers, Mr. Styles was every bit the man that Liam had made him out to be. He was warm and saturated, his smile wide and flickering into life with the same immediacy found in electric lights, sparks popping in his cheeks, calm green eyes glowing with a rapt attention that Louis could almost label as intimidating. He stood there, tall and relaxed in his languid pose, as he made clever jokes and charming inquiries; the very portrait of a gentleman: friendly; kind; genuine; confident. Perhaps a bit ostentatious (actors always are, though) and perhaps a bit too calm, almost bored at times… But, overall, rather captivating.

Louis watched him curiously, camouflaged in the dim lighting as he peered past the doorframe, fingers pressed into the smooth wood. In the distance, echoing somewhere in the stage hall, he could hear Mr. Higgins and Zayn and Niall, all bickering over one thing or another (they always are) but it was all white noise compared to the scene before him.

He watched Mr. Styles like a hawk. He watched pink lips curl on words, voice so very deep and rumbled, vibrating down the corridor, bumping into the shadows. He watched dark brows knit together in mockery and arch in amusement. He watched a smooth jaw exhaling laughter, smooth as the white-glass bottles Zayn always keeps beneath his chair, corked with the cheap wine that stains his lips. He watched a striking profile framed in a curtain of dark tresses that brushed shoulders with every movement, curls clustered like rusted corkscrews, gleaming dull beneath the hazy daze of gas lamps and the crimson paint of the walls.

The man demanded attention—demanded Louis’ attention, at least. He was just so…mesmerizing, is what he was. So beautiful and pleasant and seemingly in control, that it was a startling, almost _disturbing_ contrast to the man Louis had been met with earlier.

Clearly, he hated Louis. For no foreseeable reason.

Needless to say, it left Louis a bit unsettled.

“He hates me,” he lamented to Liam later on, now watching as Mr. Styles conversed easily with Zayn and Niall both—a true feat. Zayn wasn’t glaring, his eyes intent and unblinking on the man’s face. Niall was half-smiling, nodding along with the occasional chuckle. Their body language was open, inviting. Curious. Interested.

Bastards.

Liam raised an eyebrow as he leaned against the wall, cane lazily clutched in his folded hands. He leaned on it a bit further as his eyes swiveled to the scene before them, just as Niall laughed again and Mr. Styles joined him, soft and low. Like the earth shifting. A very minor earthquake. It made Louis frown.

“I doubt that he hates you, Louis,” he’d mumbled airily, still observing. “It’s only been a few hours. You’ve not done anything yet, have you?” His tone was a tad suspicious.

“No,” Louis replied hotly, folding his arms as his eyes bore into the back of Mr. Styles’ head, hoping they’d leave marks. He wanted him to feel his frown, his disappointment. The utter injustice of everything. “I’ve done nothing at all. Not one thing.” He sighed, turning away. “At least, not that I know of.”

“Hm. Well let’s test him then, shall we?” Liam smiled impishly, already straightening as Louis’ head whipped to him, startled.

“What are you going to—“ he began, but Liam’s voice suddenly cracked through the air.

“Oi! Harry! Come over here, will you? Just for a moment!”

It is not an exaggeration to say that Louis’ blood stopped flowing.

“What are you doing??” he hissed, clutching Liam’s arm in a Zayn-like vice, face heating up as Mr. Styles glanced at them curiously before excusing himself from Zayn and Niall.

But Liam was smiling in the most put-open manner ever, beckoning Harry over as he muttered, “Just testing,” in an all-too-pleasant voice under his breath. The privileged are always arseholes.

And Louis was just about to express as much as he subtly tried to retreat, attempting to make himself smaller, but Mr. Styles has very long legs and, alas—he was suddenly before Louis’ very eyes, his striking features a mere arm’s length away. Beautiful and intimidating and focused as he smiled softly at Liam, inquiry in the tilt of his head.

“Hello again,” he mumbled unnecessarily, though it was charming somehow, really very pleasant, and Louis felt all the more bitter for it.

Liam’s smile was less pleasant. “Hello. Was just wondering if everything was to your liking so far? Are you thirsty, hungry? Would you like us to take your jacket? Louis here, would be all too happy to—“

But Liam’s voice may as well have evaporated the very instant that Mr. Styles set his stare on Louis. Because, see, the soft (albeit amused) smile that had just been lighting Harry’s face, promptly froze before it fell. Fell like wet mud thrown at a brick wall, dripping down in horrifying glops. Fell hard and fell fast.

His smile bloody _fell_. All because he looked at Louis.

Louis shrunk even more so, unable to resist the barely decipherable narrowing of his eyes as he felt a wave of defensiveness shoot through his muscles. Because, honestly—how rude.

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Mr. Styles suddenly spoke, perhaps cutting Liam off. (Louis wouldn’t know, he couldn’t hear. Too pinned down.) His smile reassembled, though much stiffer than before, his eyes delicately stormy as they ripped away from Louis, eyebrow twitching. “I was actually just about to look for your father. Would you be so kind as to take me to him?”

And then, just like that, they were gone in a flash, Liam shooting back an incredulous look at Louis.

Naturally, he sidled up to him soon after.

“Why does he hate you?” he asked, more intrigued than anything as he leaned close, and Louis could only groan, sinking his head into his hands because this was awful. This was the actual worst thing that could happen. Harry Styles was their newest prize, their biggest darling—and he hated Louis. Positively hated him. Wanted him dead, by the looks of it, and there was no explanation, no solution.

Even when he’d encountered Louis in the dressing room just before he left for the day, there was something jarring in the air, stilted and not-right. Awkward, almost.

Louis had been sulking some more, picking at the wood grain with his fingernail as he chided himself internally for being so out of his depth. He used to be good at this job, you know. Once, he may have been the best. He got _Roland Valley_ to befriend him, for Christ’s sake (albeit begrudgingly), and he’s made sterner, older, and more terrifying men than Harry Styles laugh.

He’s always, _always_ been the right-hand man of the lead actor, alright? It’s his thing, his privilege, his… Well, it’s his pride, really. Louis is known for his strong interpersonal relationships with even the most enigmatic talents. Never before has he been so spurned so quickly. And with no explanation.

He sighed, fingers splayed on the dark chocolate wood of the dressing room table, its surface dinged with tiny nicks. He probably put them there. He frowned, cheeks creasing.

Then suddenly the door burst open, causing him to jump out of his bloody skin before he spun around, brows furrowed because who on earth would—

He froze when he locked eyes with Mr. Styles.

“Hi,” was all Louis managed, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead as he gaped at the tall specter of a man before him, framed in the narrow doorway like the eighteenth century oil-painting that he was.

Just one ping of silence passed between their locked stare before Mr. Styles exhaled, low and surprised, eyes blinking.

“Oops,” he mumbled, delayed, seeming very startled upon seeing Louis. His hand visibly tightened on the doorknob as he stood stock still, body draped in richly patterned black, silver rings coating his fingers, the shadow of his eyelashes cutting across the hollows beneath his eyes. Beautiful and striking despite looking very much like a cornered mouse. It would’ve been comical, had it not been completely disheartening. “I—er—I was just looking for my coat, I apologize,” he stuttered in a low, mumbled rush (not very elegant for an actor), the words flushed like his neck. “I thought perhaps it’d be in here? Somewhere?” he gestured awkwardly to the wall, thumb jagged and stiff. “I wasn’t sure where to look, you see, because they just took it and I don’t know where—“ He faltered, hand dropping as he stared at Louis with very wide eyes.

None of his easy enthusiasm was present. None of the charm that Louis had seen all day.

Instead, he was bloody terrified and looking for his coat—which was really the icing on the cake, considering that he hadn’t let _Louis_ take his coat when Liam offered. (So, brilliant. Louis’ probably on the road to getting dismissed now, as well.)

Unable to resist his frown, Louis looked back down at the varnished wood, pulling his hand away and stuffing it into his pocket, balled up tightly. “’S not in here,” he shrugged, maybe a little petulantly. Perhaps.

Silence was his only response.

He continued to stare down at the dressing room table as he waited for the sound of a door shutting or footsteps retreating, ready to be cast aside once more by his newest charge.

But it never came and he chanced a glance up, only to find Mr. Styles’ eyes on him, far less distressed but still a little pinched, perhaps even a little curious. There was just one beat of silence before—

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Styles said quietly, his shoulders slumping just enough to be noticed.

Louis raised his eyebrows as he lifted his head fully, looking the man dead-on.

“I’m sorry,” the man repeated, shaking his head as he stepped fully into the room, hand still on the doorknob as he gently shut the door behind him. The other hand lifted to his brow, slowly swiping at his eye before combing a few errant tendrils of hair away from his face. “I’ve just been very out of sorts today, I’m afraid. I was late”—he looked up, met Louis’ eye with urgency, as if begging him to believe his words—“because I hadn’t been feeling well and missed my train. It was an honest mistake and I apologize.”

Louis just stared, feeling rather bewildered.

Why was he apologizing? Wasn’t he aware that Louis held absolutely no authority in this situation?

“I’ve been a little scrambled ever since,” Mr. Styles continued, illustrating his words with his free hand, eyebrows knit. “I’m sorry if I’ve been rude? Have I been rude? I’m not usually—“ He cut off, looking rather helpless and young.

And, again, Louis could only stare, fish-mouthing.

But Mr. Styles seemed to take it as an affirmation, briefly biting the cushion of his lip as he nodded to himself and looked away, apology in his features. He was rather erratic, Louis decided as he observed his hunched posture and tightly clenched fingers. A bit mad. “Forgive me. I’m acting—“ Again, he faltered. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling well,” he finished lamely, looking pained and a little bewildered himself. “And it’s getting the better of me, apparently. I’m acting bizarre. I don’t know why, I’m sorry.”

Louis simply nodded, having absolutely no idea of what else to do, as he eyed him with weariness before clearing his throat, attempting to straighten himself into a position of professionalism. He took his hands out of his pockets, feet shuffling on the dark, glossy floorboards beneath his feet. “Of course, sir,” he smiled lightly despite the question marks in his brain. “But I would like to assure you that I’m happy to help in any way I can.”

There. Tidy, neat. To the point. No excessive banter, no questions—even if they were currently shredding Louis’ insides. Liam would be proud.

At the words, Mr. Styles sighed with a nod, hand tightening on the door once more. “Of course.”

Louis nodded as well, just because, feeling like he had too many limbs. The air was just so _awkward_. Smelled of polish and stage makeup and scented oils and all the erratic confusion that was currently dribbling out of his pores in waves. Intermingling with all the chaos dripping out of Mr. Styles’. Too much.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he wracked his brain for good valet things to say. Professional. “I can find your coat for you?” he offered a little pathetically, pressing up on his toes with a bounce. “If you wish to rest? I’d be more than happy to, sir—“

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Mr. Styles rushed, looking Louis in the eye. His voice was low and final. But kind. “I believe I know its whereabouts.”

“Oh.”

That’s not what he said two minutes ago.

“Well,” Mr. Styles then coughed, his eyes flickering around the room and only daring to stop on Louis once, quietly frazzled in a way that Louis just couldn’t understand. “I should be going. I’ll—I shall see you tomorrow, then?”

“Yes, sir, you shall,” Louis nodded a little eagerly as he took an unconscious step forward. “I’ll be here.” He tacked on a lopsided smile.

Mr. Styles swallowed visibly. Pinpricks of sweat clung to his upper lip. “As will I,” he murmured, unsure, staring at the wardrobe.

More silence. Until—

“Er. Goodbye, then,” he suddenly exited in a rush, whipping the door closed behind him, before Louis could even open his mouth to respond. Leaving only the silence, Louis, and his thoughts—which were anything but silent.

And the next day proved to be even _worse_ , somehow.

Miss Smith arrived late, kicking up a bit of a fuss about her costumes; Zayn had to step outside, his eyes threatening to pop out of his skull, while Niall pursed his lips.

“This is going to be fine,” Louis’d heard him say to himself in a strained voice and Louis couldn’t help but bite in his laughter as he made a beeline for the dressing room because whenever Niall is stressed, you _know_ it’s serious. But Louis couldn’t stop to soothe him today; he was on a mission.

Earlier, he’d sought advice from Liam again (which was a shocking and desperate turn of events), who’d given him strict and firm instructions as to how to improve today’s efforts of befriending Actor Harry Styles.

“Just don’t take ‘no’ for an answer,” Liam had shrugged, inspecting his nails. They were perfectly groomed and a bit stubby. “Offer him chocolates.”

“Offer him chocolates?” Louis repeated in a deadpan.

Again, Liam shrugged, completely unperturbed. “Whatever you do, just make sure he likes you. Father was concerned about yesterday.”

And that was all Louis had to hear before he was marching his arse backstage.

Luckily, he arrived at the room before Harry, lighting up the lamps and straightening everything to the most perfect angle. He smoothed hands down his white shirt, adjusted his braces, and wiped the scuffmarks off of his shoes the best he could, licking the palm of his hand.

Presentable. He wanted to look presentable. And professional. Inviting. Surely, Mr. Styles would respond to that? An actor of his caliber was probably used to very exquisite valets.

It was about twenty minutes later when the door opened and Louis smiled, close-lipped and controlled.

“Good morning, sir,” he trilled upon Mr. Styles’ entry, standing expectantly in the middle of the room. “And how are you today? May I take your coat? Fetch you some tea? There’s a nip in the air this morning.” He was using every bit of training he could remember, Liam’s voice echoing in the back of his skull.

Mr. Styles stared at him, eyes still sleep-tired and slow, his mouth slack as it attempted to form a small smile. There was a shyness to him as he fumbled further into the room, careful to stand far away from Louis, his eyes inspecting the walls, the ceiling, the furniture. Occasionally lingering on Louis in a curious and hesitant sort of way.

“No, thank you,” he replied quietly, gently, though he allowed Louis to remove his coat.

Louis’ fingers clutched at the soft fur of the collar, brushing against the warmth of Mr. Styles’ upper back, solid beneath the smooth ebony of his jacket. It was just a flash of a feeling, something chasing and lingering and subtly noticeable but it was enough, apparently, to startle Mr. Styles.

As soon as the coat was peeled from his arms, he took two strides forward, spinning around to face Louis with a look that suggested he’d just seen a poltergeist.

Louis blinked, still holding the coat, completely startled.

They stared at each other, not a word spoken.

Had he done something wrong? Were his fingers too clumsy? Had he hurt Mr. Styles?

“I’m going to go get the script now,” Mr. Styles blurted, awkward and stilted, apropos of nothing.

Louis continued to stare.

“I probably won’t need anything more today. But thank you, Mr. Tomlinson.”

“Louis,” he corrected mindlessly because he was never referred to by his surname, his status was never so high. Carefully, he turned around and hung the green coat, sliding it upon the hanger with careful reverence as his brain clanged like a bell.  

He was already being _dismissed_ for the day??

“Are you quite sure, sir?” he asked after a pause, careful and pushy—just like Liam said. His palms felt moist as he turned around, hoping the offense didn’t show in his features. “I would be more than happy to help you in any way I can. Fetch a drink or a biscuit, perhaps? Or, er. Chocolate?” he offered desperately, internally cursing Liam. “Whatever you wish, sir. I’m more than happy to oblige. It’s my job, sir.”

But this only made Mr. Styles stiffen more. “Thank you,” he nodded politely, still seeming distracted and jumpy, a frown tugging on the corner of his mouth. “But I’m sure it won’t be necessary.”

And that was that.

So, needless to say, Louis’ had a lot of extra time on his hands these past two days. Since Mr. Styles apparently abhors him and won’t let him within arm’s reach, Louis’ taken back to his hobby of reading on the sidelines, nose always buried in one of the five tattered books he has in his possession. (His favorite is Keat’s _Endymion_ right now. Such lovely words help elevate him from the tragedy of his own life...)

Luckily, he also has Zayn, Niall, and Liam to pass the time.

“He still hates you?” Liam’s asking, amused, taking in Louis’ forlorn posture.

“Still hates me,” Louis confirms, pursing is lips, book tucked under his arm. He sighs dramatically, glancing towards the stage where Mr. Styles is deep in conversation with Miss Smith, her voice trilling through the air like a baby songbird. Louis’ decided he likes her. She’s nice, though very spoiled and clumsy.

Mr. Styles must as well because he’s currently listening to her with rapt attention, nodding with every word, and smiling in the most delightful way, as if it were as easy as an exhale. A curl dances upon his cheek and Louis wants to flick it in his eye. He frowns, watching him speak, lips moving with every letter; he has a beautiful stage mouth, though Louis has yet to see him use it as such.

Even with all the conflict he feels for the man, Louis can’t deny that he’s almost dying with anticipation to see him act. The read-through has been stalled a bit, what with unforeseen complications popping up here and there, so the momentum has been building steadily, the suspense hanging. (Louis suspects that’s why Zayn’s been smoking more than usual, pacing the aisles as he rereads his script for the thousandth time, sending the pages flying through the air in his wake, drifting like leaves. Niall’s all too sick of trailing after him, picking up each sheet with practiced calm.)

Suddenly, Mr. Styles’ eyes lift from Miss Smith’s face and land on Louis, freezing him in time. There’s one poignant moment where they’re just looking at each other, standing across the vast hall—

And then Mr. Styles looks away, looking decidedly unsettled.

Superb.

Louis sighs again, frowning all the more. “I just don’t know what I’ve done.”

“Maybe he finds your voice annoying,” Liam offers, innocent as can be.

“Thank you, Liam.”

“Well, it’s a possibility!” he insists, rolling his eyes. “Why else would he be avoiding you?”

“I have no idea…” Louis sighs, continuing to watch Mr. Styles. The man’s stiffer now, his smile less pronounced, hands clenched at his sides. It’s almost as if he feels Louis’ eyes. “I have no idea.”

**

It’s raining, all soggy and wet beneath the thin soles of his shoes, as Louis makes his way to the theater in the very early morning.

He’s tired today, having had an off-kilter night’s sleep, and the rain has dripped through his hat and soaked his hair, clinging to the messy strands and dripping down the back of his neck, the sides of his face. It tickles his cheekbones and clumps his lashes; he distractedly wipes at them with the back of one hand, the other tightly clenching his book beneath his thin coat; he can’t afford to get it wet, to have the pages ruined. Books are few and far between.

When he steps inside the theater, the smell of mud and cold metal cling to his clothes and moist skin, droplets of water speckling the marble floor beneath him with each step. He needs to dry off before he makes his way much further—can’t read for hours in the fine velvet chairs if he’s a soggy mess, now can he?

He’s just shrugging his wet jacket off and carefully setting his book atop the windowsill when the clicks of soles suddenly echo against the walls, a bright voice following in their wake.

“You look like a wet dog!” Liam laughs, apparently highly amused at Louis’ messy state. When he reaches him, he scrunches his nose, pinching at the wet fabric clinging to Louis’ stomach. “Hardly becoming. Do you have anything else to wear? Zayn will have a fit if you’re dripping on set. They’re doing the read-through today, you know.” Liam always packs as much information as he can into his greetings.

“Good morning to you, too,” Louis replies dryly (hah) as he toes off his shoes and wrings out his hat, leaving a nice puddle on the floor beside him. Damn.

“Probably best clean that up,” Liam quips, looking down.

“Yeah, probably,” Louis mutters in a thin tone; his patience feels a little precarious today. He’s wet, he’s tired, and he’s about to spend the day being ignored by his actor. Even the excitement of the read-through can’t saturate this bullshit.

“On a brighter note,” Liam continues, lifting a shining grin into Louis’ face, “everybody’s already here! The actors, the crew—everybody!” He sounds like one giant exclamation point, all shiny and glowing in his day’s splendor (today he’s sporting a highly uncharacteristic floral satin scarf tucked into his collar—no doubt the latest fashion) and Louis absolutely wants to push him into a nearby puddle.

“Brilliant. So I’m late as well, is that what you’re telling me?” he asks, trying not to glare as he combs fingers through the damp strands of his hair. He probably looks a mess. Shirt transparent (one of these days he’s going to own a shirt that’s a color other than white, just wait) as it clings to his stomach and bones, socks damp, and hands shriveled and pale. Stunning. Gorgeous. Memorable.

Mr. Styles will certainly love him like this.

Liam’s just about to respond, his mouth opened in hesitation (no doubt trying to think of consolatory words because Liam does try, bless ‘im) when the Powers That Be suddenly decide to play a cruel joke on Louis.

Mr. Styles rounds the corner, dressed spotlessly in a simple grey suit, green flower pinned to his lapel. Far less ostentatious than Liam, yet somehow infinitely more fashionable. Timeless and flawless, like the art he is.

All the while as Louis stands there dripping, looking like a street rat. His eyes widen in horror as he simultaneously attempts a grin that’s mostly just bared teeth and curled lips, eyebrows nearly meeting in the middle.

“Liam!” the deep vibration of Mr. Styles’ voice calls, loud in the empty hall. The timbre matches the grey skies and pattered rain, the puddle of water on the floor at Louis’ feet. “There you are. I was looking all around because I was wondering if you could show me—“  His voice cuts off as he stops in his tracks, eyes suspended in their relaxed state as they come to settle on Louis. His mouth remains open, his posture stills. It’s as if he’s been frozen.

Louis grinds his teeth.

“Harry,” Liam greets, sounding amused. “Of course, mate. We’ll leave Louis here to dry up. Now, if you just follow me, I can show you anywhere you like. I practically grew up within these walls, you know—“

But Harry’s eyes never leave Louis, taking in his current state as they roam free, glancing at the puddle before coming to rest somewhere near his collarbones. “Are you alright?” he asks, startled and rough. Wet gravel beneath wagon wheels.

Louis attempts to keep his ‘smile’ in place. “More than,” he lies pleasantly, trying to stand straighter. He’s very aware that his nipples are probably on display. Which is splendid. “Did you need anything, sir? I apologize for my lateness. But if you need help finding anything—“

“Oh no, no,” Mr. Styles rushes, eyes still caught. They’re glassy, almost luminescent, as he swallows, just a bob of the throat. He shifts, hands covertly tightening into fists. So poised and yet so discombobulated. Louis will never understand the mechanics at work. “Thank you, though. Have you—have you other clothes?”

He seems so concerned, so hesitant to let himself be pulled away by Liam.

It’s entirely strange and unexpected and, quite frankly, Louis has no bloody idea what to do.

“I do,” he lies. He’ll be able to find something. There’s probably a costume somewhere that Caroline will let him wear. He smiles brightly. “Thank you for your concern.”

Mr. Styles just nods. And then there’s silence, Liam glancing between the two as Louis shifts uneasily, painfully self-conscious, and Mr. Styles’ cheeks tinge a pale shade of pink.

“Right, then,” he clips, spinning around on the spot and stalking away, his strides swift and long. He’s a gazelle. “Until later,” he calls, a little weakly, and Liam offers one last bewildered look over to Louis (who just shrugs, shaking his head helplessly) before he trots after him.

So it’s just going to be another one of those days, then. Marvelous.

Louis scrubs at his eyes as he grabs his book and gathers his clothes, trailing raindrops all the way to Caroline’s room.

He’ll clean the mess up later.

**

Harry Styles is an enigma.

“I don’t understand it. Why does he behave so oddly?” Louis mutters with no small amount of manic frustration, open book perched in his lap as he watches the man in question converse very seriously with Zayn for the thousandth time this week. They’re stood beneath the stage, hunched together, and there’s a distant look of either terror or fascination in Mr. Styles’ eyes as he listens to Zayn’s fervent words and rapid hang gestures. No doubt, he’s trying to convey Felix’s character to Mr. Styles in the most detailed and arduous way he knows how; no doubt, Mr. Styles is overwhelmed.

But, to be fair, he seems to be soaking up Zayn’s words with genuine heart. Perhaps he truly takes his task seriously. Louis hopes so—he looks up to those sorts of people.

Beside him, Niall grunts, a careless noise as he flips through Zayn’s script, writing illegible notes in the margins with blackened fingers, cigarette pinched between his teeth. He doesn’t so much as glance at Louis, eyes shaded in concentration, his normally combed hair looking a bit peaky—the farther the production comes along, the more chaotic Niall’s hair becomes. It’s just a thing.

“I mean,” Louis continues, snapping his book shut as he leans forward and hooks his chin over the back of the chair in front of him, eyes narrowing as they contemplate the pair. “I just don’t understand? He won’t let me do anything for him and he seems uncomfortable around me. And yet he was concerned cuz I was a bit wet from the rain this morning?”

“More than a bit, from what I remember,” Niall murmurs, distracted, as he underlines an entire paragraph with a fervor that rivals Zayn’s. They’re more similar than they seem at first glance.

Louis shoots him a glare. “Regardless,” he sniffs, eyes returning to the scene. “He’s best mates with everyone. Every single person. He’s confident and interesting. So bloody famous—and he looks it! He acts it…” He trails off, frown creasing the lines of his face and making his mouth feel uneven and large. “Just not with me,” he huffs.

At this, Niall sighs, setting down his pen with a clunk as he turns bright blue eyes onto Louis, one eyebrow raised. He looks as boyish as he does aged, his expression always caught somewhere between serious and carefree. “Look, I’m not sure what’s going on between you two. But he’s a good man and, from what I’ve heard, an even better actor. Though, I suppose today will test that theory, eh?” He half-grins, sending a sparkle through his eyes, a shadow catching in the dimple on his chin. “But, whatever happens, don’t worry so much, Lou. Higgins’d never dismiss you. You’re an essential bloke here—for him, me, Zayn, even Liam. If Styles turns out to be a bastard, you’ve no need to worry.”

“But I want to ask him so many things,” Louis bemoans as he dramatically leans back in his seat, kicking his legs up. His fingers ghost upon the faded fabric of his book, the gilt letters faded and chipped. A little rough but still smooth in parts. “He just seems so worldly. Interesting. He’s done so many brilliant plays and… I don’t know. I suppose it’s a bit silly, saying it aloud like that.” He smiles depreciatingly, catching Niall’s eye. “Just want to poke at his brain a bit. You’ve got to wonder what it’s like to be so famous. So supposedly gifted at _acting_ , of all things.”

But Niall merely shrugs, attention already drifting back to the script. “Can’t say I ever think about it too much. Too caught up in trying to get everyone to follow instructions.”

Well, there’s a point.

So Louis just smiles, settling back in his chair as he reopens his book and shrugs his thoughts away, Zayn’s voice still drifting in and out in waves.

**

Everything is chaos. Everything.

“I’ve lost my script!” Miss Smith screeches as she pales, stalking around the hall at a rather impressive speed.

“We can get you a new one! Surely we can get you a new one?” Liam offers, trailing after her, alongside her lady’s maid, his hat clutched in his hands as he stares at her with unmasked adoration. He’s always such a lost pup with the leading ladies.

“We’ve already given her two copies,” Zayn snaps, scowling beneath his trilby as he waves his own copy in the air, sheets threatening to spill out. “It’s not my fault she’s an idiot.”

“Zayn!” Liam gasps just as Miss Smith halts in her step, clutching her chest. She seems on the verge of crying.

“C’mon Zayn, don’t be a prick,” Louis mutters, frowning as he watches Miss Smith’s eyes widen with sadness, her lip sucked into her mouth.

Niall’s rubbing his temples. The crew is swarming around, clearing the stage and lining up chairs for everyone to sit on for the read-through. People are arguing, Carolines’s nattering on about needing to know measurements, Louise is wondering why she needs to be here (she whines about this almost every day and Louis sort of can’t stand her) and everybody else is bumping elbows and flitting past each other, voices raised and—

And it’s entirely bloody chaotic and Louis’ head feels ready to split.

He’s also somehow lost Mr. Styles, though nobody else seems to notice this. Probably because Miss Smith is now crying.

“My father will not be pleased about this,” she hiccups, daintily blowing her nose in Liam’s handkerchief. He looks like she hung the moon.

Zayn looks like he could hang _her_. “Fine,” he grits out, his bony limbs taught. “One more script— _one_ ,” he articulates with one bony, crooked finger, his eyes ablaze and forehead shiny. “But after this, you’re on your own, you complete and utter ninny.”

Naturally, this descends the room into even more chaos and conflict.

“Zayn, are you mad?!” Liam roars just as Miss Smith literally shrieks, clutching her chest as she nearly faints—her lady’s maid rushes to catch her, looking bewildered.

Louis sighs, sharing one long look with Niall.

“Should probably go fetch that Styles bloke, eh?” Niall mutters low, looking very tired for having done very little today.

Louis snorts. “I’m not very sure that he’ll want to be fetched by me,” he frowns, wincing when Miss Smith omits a particularly loud screech.

“Don’t care. He’s just going to have to get used to it,” Niall replies flatly, standing up gracefully as he begins to saunter forward. Confidence and exasperation ooze out of him, his head held as high as he can manage. “You’re his _valet._ Simple as that.” His eyes are crisp. “See you shortly. I’ll handle this circus.” He winks tiredly before he clears his throat, suddenly immersing himself into the pandemonium. “ALRIGHT, EVERYBODY STOP!”

Immediately, everyone stills, mouths open in shock as all heads turn to Niall, and Louis smirks, taking the opportunity to steal away as quickly as he can.

The only trouble is that he has absolutely no bloody idea where Mr. Styles could be. None at all. Clearly, he’s not here in the main hall with the rest of them. He’s not up on stage, isn’t backstage. He isn’t in the corridors.

Sighing, Louis halts at the winding staircase that leads to the second floor—the one that’s rarely used, except for sold-out performances as extra seating. It’s one of the more ornate sections of the theater, older and dustier and almost spookier, but it’s a truly beautiful little section, one that Louis’ always loved. Mr. Styles probably was shown it briefly during his tour. Perhaps not.

It would certainly be strange for him to be up there, especially for no discernible reason…

Louis eyes the stairs contemplatively, one foot already resting on the first step. His hand settles on the railing—cool marble. Almost glows pale blue in the gloom.

Quietly, he ascends the stairs, steps barely echoing in the empty corridor as his shadow flickers past dark portraits hung on the walls; the lights are usually off upstairs so everything’s rather dark, save for the grey light that filters through the elongated windows and gives everything a glow. When he reaches the top, the thin corridor is empty. The dark wooden chairs are empty, the tables untouched. Sculptures sit, staring sightlessly and collecting dust. The chandeliers are unlit and speckled with sporadic cobwebs, hanging like ghouls overhead. It’s inexplicably soothing, somehow. It should probably all feel garish and creepy but, somehow, Louis finds it all comfortable. Cozy, even.

Dust and stagnation filling his nostrils, he walks further into the gloom, footsteps echoing. It’s only when he’s passing the entryway to the balcony that he detects movement from the corner of his eye. And there—there he is. Mr. Styles, bedecked in grey to match his grey surroundings, meandering down the aisles of the balcony, his face composed with gentle awe as he overlooks the theater from above, eyes caressing the intricate moldings on the ceiling, the ornate painting that fills the expanse of it. It depicts some Greek myth—Louis can never remember which, but he’s sure Zeus has some cameo somewhere—and Mr. Styles’ lips are parted in the most gentle manner as he stares at it. Louis can’t help but stare in return as he finds himself shrinking into the shadows, curiously watching the red of the man’s mouth. Such a gentle mouth. Such bright, wandering eyes.

Mr. Styles slopes when he walks. It’s hardly graceful but it’s unique and it makes Louis watch his steps and the way his hands move, fingers drifting atop the backs of the velvet seats. Curls cluster atop his shoulders as he wades, looking up, up, up. All around. So curious and alone and seemingly enamored.

He’s so strange. Louis wants to know him.

Curious, Louis creeps along the wall the closer Mr. Styles comes, creeps until he’s hid behind an enormous vase that always seemed out of place with the décor. Right now though, he cherishes it, sinking behind it as Mr. Styles steps into the corridor, his hands loose and unclenched, still bedecked in too many rings that gleam dully in the muted light. He stops, standing tall as he looks around. He looks a little morose, maybe. So solemn and observant.

Such a striking man. Louis wants to _know_ him.

 What is he thinking? Why is he here? Why did he sneak away from the crowd to explore? Is he being nosy or just curious? Perhaps he wants to be alone? But isn’t he a party boy? A personality for the ages? Isn’t he on top of the world, leading the world in a show?

Right now he appears curious and quiet and stricken with awe as he admires the dusty silence of the forgotten part of the theater. Right now he seems lovely and strange and grey, washed away in the dark. His skin is very pale. Louis wonders if it’s as cold as it looks.

He’s lost in his own thoughts when he finds himself mindlessly stepping out from the shadows, Mr. Styles’ back to him.

“Sir?” he hears himself call gently, curiously, hands at his sides. The word echoes in the empty hall, pinging against stone.

Mr. Styles spins around, a startled look in his eyes. “Oh! Mr. Tomlinson!”

A ripple of silence follows; Louis doesn’t know what to say.

Liam said to be quiet, to be well behaved. If he’s already scaring the man away, surely he shouldn’t speak any more than he already has done. (Which is next to nothing.)

“The read-through,” is all Louis says, quiet and professional as he watches Mr. Styles watch him, face expressionless. The grey clings to the hollows beneath his eyes, making him look tired, more tired than Louis remembers.

Mr. Styles nods, slow and calm. “Of course. Shall we?” He motions towards the staircase and Louis feels his eyes as he takes the lead, a little unsurely. He’s trying to maintain etiquette, trying so hard to be everything a proper valet should be… But he’s so painfully aware of everything, from his own unsure steps to Mr. Styles’ eyes on the back of his head, that his breath comes out dusty and his hands feel simultaneously moist in the palms and dry at the knuckles. His lips sting and they’re chapped.

This is all so bloody awkward. Next time, he’s just going to give up his post as valet and offer his services for the stage building. He’s quite handy with a brush.

He exhales quietly. He hears Mr. Styles’ steps behind him, slow and methodic.

“I’ll just have to go to my dressing room for a moment,” he suddenly says, quiet in the silence. “I won’t be long.”

“I’ll go with you,” Louis replies instantly. “Whatever you need, I’m happy to assist, sir.”

“No need—“ Mr. Styles starts, but Louis can’t help but roll his eyes, shaking his head as he turns to give the man a stern glare, unable to resist.

“You keep saying that but you’ve really been making my life quite boring.” He slips out the book from his back pocket, gesturing with it as Mr. Styles’ eyes widen. “I’ve already finished me book today so, please, just let me do my job? It’s a madhouse in there. I don’t really want to return until I have to.”

The minute the words are out, he freezes, realizing he’s failed Mr. Higgins, Liam, probably failed himself, even.

Blast. He was supposed to keep his mouth _shut_.

In a last minute attempt at cordiality, he smiles, all soft and hopeful despite the feeling of reprimand in his stomach, fully expecting a verbal one in return, perhaps a filthy look or a scoff.

But Mr. Styles… Well. He smiles. Rather genuinely, even.

“Alright,” is all he says, seemingly amused, before his smile is licked away and he returns his gaze to his feet, eyebrows pulling together inexplicably.

It’s not altogether normal but Louis will take it.

“Thank you, sir,” he replies while the moment’s still fresh, tucking his book back in his trousers and exhaling in silent relief, body relaxing infinitesimally. At least there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.

As they make their way to the dressing room, the ruckus on the stage grows louder; Miss Smith sounds as if she’s laughing though, delighted by something, and Louis can’t hear the sound of Zayn breaking chairs so perhaps it’s headed in a better direction after all? He sends a silent thanks upward as he opens the door for Mr. Styles, bowing his head as the man passes, respectfully avoiding his eye.

“I just wanted to change my jacket,” Mr. Styles explains, flashing the briefest smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He reaches for a maroon jacket that’s hung on the hangers (Louis never put that there, hm) but before his long fingers can grasp it, Louis halts him, frowning. Mr. Styles blinks. His eyelashes are very long. Curled and pretty. Louise won’t have to put on much makeup.

“Allow me,” Louis tells more than asks, a firmness in his tone as he taps the outline of the book in his pocket as a not-so-subtle reminder.

Mr. Styles’ eyes dart to the movement fast as lightning before he swallows, nodding and stepping back, his shoulders a bit hunched as he stands there, eyes drifting to the wall opposite them. They appear sightless and tired, though there’s unease in their corners, taught as they are. He sucks his lip into his mouth, all slow-motion and fidgety, and Louis marvels at him as he gently pulls the grey jacket off his shoulders, wondering why he’s so composed of fire and snow.

All geniuses are though, probably. Chaotic and calm, just like their brains.

But the thing is…

The thing is that Mr. Styles’ shoulders feel so stiff and he’s so silent and off, only with Louis, and Louis has so many questions and he’s so eager and bored and antsy as he hangs up his grey jacket, his hands sparking with pent up frustration and impatience. This isn’t like Louis, it isn’t like him to just be quiet and subservient and boring, so he smiles as he slips the maroon jacket off its hanger, surrendering to himself as he turns around, taking in Mr. Styles with wide eyes, tilting his head as he contemplates the timid rabbit before him.  

“You played Cryil in _The Man Without A Mask_ ,” he states more than asks, a small but genuine smile making its way onto his mouth, the fabric smooth in his hands. Gently, he makes his way back to Mr. Styles before slowly slipping his arms through the sleeves of the jacket, movements practiced and calm as he continues to speak, ignoring the way Mr. Styles’ body’s gone taught beneath his touch. “I can only imagine how difficult that was,” he prods a little, unable to contain his enthusiasm. “To portray someone so villainized.”

For a moment, Mr. Styles stares at him, something almost startled in his elegant features. Then he relaxes into a small smile, a tiny one, and it’s reflected in his eyes more than his lips in a manner which Louis can’t quite describe. It’s as if his mouth were shy and his spirit soft. Something like that, maybe.

“It was difficult,” he nods, voice very gentle and low. There’s a crackle to it, like thunder at a distance. “But I enjoyed it. There was something in the character that I found to be…special.”

Enthralled, Louis listens, unable to resist taking a step forward—which Mr. Styles tracks with his eyes.

“Me, too,” he grins, folding his hands behind his back, so as to anchor himself. He knows he can be a bit too much, a bit loud and boisterous for his station. So he flicks a bit of hair out of his eyes and continues. “But, even though it’s a tragedy, I always sympathized with Cyril, myself. I think I’m the only one, of course—you probably find me mad—but there’s something very sad about a man who falls victim to himself, I think. He destroyed himself, first and foremost. But I don’t think it was even really his fault, you know? It was almost as if his brain turned on him, worked against him, luring him to believe only the negative and the false because he only ever succumbed to himself when he was alone. When he was with others, at first, he could forget…” He drifts off, lost in his thoughts momentarily because he never gets to speak like this with anyone; despite working in a theater, Louis really does have difficulty sharing his passions. The crew seems more intent on the mechanics of the plays rather than they themselves. And Zayn and Niall really only like to discuss their current work. It’s only in the actors that Louis can sing his praises, but even then, he is sometimes met with silence.

He’s just about to conclude the same with Mr. Styles, who has remained stone-still and silent for longer than is strictly customary, when suddenly that smile appears once more, this time a touch emboldened, a touch more taken aback. But beautiful, all the same, if Louis’ being very honest. Harry Styles has a beautiful smile, even if he’s hesitant to bestow it on the likes of someone like Louis.

“I feel the same,” he says, voice a fraction louder as his smile curls his lips. It seems bashful. “I sympathized with him. I think that’s what made it so easy to be him. I—I must confess that I’ve never met anyone who shared my sentiments, but Mr. Tomlinson—“

“Louis, please, sir.”

“—Louis,” Mr. Styles corrects, a hesitance to it, “it appears that you and I share an opinion on this matter.” He pauses, eyes boring into Louis. “But I don’t think I could phrase it as eloquently as you just did.”  And then he looks away, seemingly overwhelmed. Of what, Louis can’t imagine, but he smiles nonetheless, delighted by the praise as well as their commonalities. How refreshing, honestly.

“Thank you, sir. But you flatter me. You’re the one who delivers things eloquently, being a great actor, ‘n all. I’m just…” he drifts off, shrugging with a laugh. “I’m just me, sir. I’m not on stages, yielding myself as a weapon to an audience. I’m just here to change your trousers.”

A surprised but amused sound pulls from Mr. Styles’ throat, his shoulders much looser than before as he tucks stray hair behind his ear, smiling up through a curtain of it. Entrancing, almost. But somehow so boyish despite the strong jaw, the reputation, the charm, and the alleged skill.

“Well, I’m the bloke who can’t change his own trousers, so that’s me,” he jokes, smile asymmetrical. “I’m no weapon wielder. I just read what they tell me. That’s hardly reason for your generous praise, Mr. Tomlinson, especially when you’re much more… Well, useful.” The words are low but his eyes are glinting and somewhat intense and he won’t look away from Louis.

It’s such an earnest approach, so unpretentious and forward and unlike the beginnings of any of Louis’ other jobs. Actors are usually boastful and separate, even when they’re surprisingly kind and willing to banter with Louis. There’s always a very clear “you are you and I am me” sort of vibe but, despite Mr. Styles’ odd mannerisms, quiet intensity, and inexplicable shyness, he’s more forthright than the others, open in a way that Louis can latch onto.

He doesn’t feel reminded of where his place is when Mr. Styles speaks to him. The firm and fast rules of cordiality are hazy at the edges. Society would be appalled.

“No, sir, not at all! You do so much _more_ than that,” Louis insists, impassioned as he unlocks his hands from his back and illustrates his words with them. “You give stories _life,_ Mr. Styles. They are just dead things otherwise, lost on paper and sat on some shelf. But with you, your voice, your mannerisms, your mind—you give them life. Birth them, if I dare to say. Or hatch, if you prefer foul.” He grins, watching Mr. Styles’ eyebrows rise. “And at least you know how to read. That’s also a bonus.”

Mr. Styles looks somewhere between laughter and something Louis can’t quite pin down. But he stares, lips calm, hands tightly gripping onto each other. His knuckles are white but his eyes are curved with such delicacy that Louis is sure he’s seen them painted somewhere.

“I’m not sure—“ he begins, eyebrows pulling together as he continues to stare, just stare. “I confess, I’m not sure what to say.” The words are very quiet, his eyes unblinking.

“Sorry,” Louis immediately apologizes, feeling a jolt. He’s been too forward, too much. This is a common occurrence, one that he was specifically warned against. He sighs, ducking his head and feeling his chin bump his chest as he toes once at the ground, reclasping his hands. “I’m sorry, sir. I often get in trouble for speaking out of turn. I should go and—“

“No!” Mr. Styles rushes, hands raised in a placating manner as he continues to stare, his eyes now wide. Something twists in them but Louis doesn’t know what. “No, please, of course not. I didn’t mean—“ He falls silent, unsure. Perhaps mildly panicked? “Rather, _I_ must go. I should go.” He nods, seemingly to himself. “I’m going to go.” It almost sounds as if he’s convincing himself, nodding as he backs away, hands seeking the doorknob.

Louis stares, dumbfounded. “Sir…?”

“I’m going now. Thank you for—well, for the talk? You are too kind, Mr. Tomlinson. I apologize for my behavior. Uhm.” He fumbles for the door, still facing Louis, still looking as if he’s seen a ghost, though unable to look away. “I’ll see you on stage? Well, rather, I’ll be on the stage. Where will you be? Not that I—“ He cringes before he falls silent, lips pressing tightly together as he shakes his head at himself.

Then he whips around, almost ripping the door off its hinges, and Louis can only blink, barely registering what’s happening, before suddenly Mr. Styles pops back around, face red and pained.

“Oh, and please call me Harry,” he says in a rush, before the door is slammed shut, successfully clipping off the words resting on Louis’ tongue.

Alright, then.

Harry Styles really is strange, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'm writing too much. Sigh. >:( So I'm splitting up the chapter and just dropping this one off first. 
> 
> Sooooo I always pair up songs with my characters in long fics. It's just something I do? It helps me envision them better, helps flush our their individual characteristics. So, in case you're interested, these are the songs I have for the boys in this fic: 
> 
> -Louis: "Sedative" by Babyshambles
> 
> -Harry: "Gods Knows I Tried" by Lana del Rey AND "In the Forest" by The Coral
> 
> -Zayn: "Fixing A Hole" by The Beatles
> 
> -Niall: "Shadows Fall" by The Coral
> 
> -Liam: "You're So Square" as performed by CeeLo Green
> 
> That's all! Anywho, thank you for reading, thank you in general :)  
> tumblr: mizzwilde


	5. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made up everything in here--the play they're doing, the lines they're quoting, the past plays they talk about... So it's all trash and it's all nonsensical and I'm sorry for that. But I just wanted to create an entirely different world (minus some of the real life historical mentions) soooooo this is what happens. Laugh with me.

_The Actor_ by The Moody Blues

**

When Louis finally wanders back to the stage hall, he finds himself still a little baffled, his brain harried from his almost-successful encounter with Mr. Styles. Or—Harry? Mr. Styles. Harry Styles.

Whoever, whatever.

His befuddled frown must be pretty evident though, because when he drifts back to the vermilion velvet chairs where the crew are all sat in impatient clusters, smoking their respective cigars and cigarettes as they eye up the actors onstage with narrowed and watchful eyes, Niall’s eyebrows immediately soar into his hairline, mussed beneath the brim of his cap. Louis ignores the blatant stare as he takes the seat next to him, feigning nonchalance.

“So. I see you found him.” Niall nods to where Mr. Styles is now sitting beside Miss Smith onstage, his brows pulled together as his eyes flit over the words on the script in his hands. Beside him, Miss Smith is trilling away like the songbird she is, her script sat at her white-booted feet, untouched. (From his peripherals, Louis can see Zayn noting this with barely contained lava in his eyes, one hand clenching an unlabeled milk-white bottle, the other squeezing the air in a shivering fist. Which, of course, prompts Niall to keep one eye on him, even as he’s talking to Louis.)

“I did,” Louis agrees, unsure, as he attempts a neutral expression. The chair squeaks with his weight as he settles, limbs bumbling, braces digging into his shoulders. “I, uh…think we _might_ be getting somewhere?”

“You ‘think’?” Niall grunts curiously, still half-watching Zayn’s quiet fury. Subtly, he shifts his hand to settle atop the latter’s knee with a consoling squeeze. It seems to settle Zayn a bit, his black gaze ripping away from Miss Smith and landing on Niall with far more softness, an exhale. He nods to himself as his fist loosens; Niall keeps his hand there. “You still scaring him, then?”

“I don’t scare him,” Louis scoffs before he stills, fear dawning on him as he slowly turns to look at Niall, who’s got prisms of light thrown across his amused face from the chandeliers that hang far above them. “Or, wait. Do I? Am I scary?” He blinks, shocked, replaying every scene between him and Harry as he gapes and searches the crowd. “Where’s Liam? I’ll ask Liam if I’m scary.”

“Busy fawning,” Zayn glowers but there’s amusement beneath the malice as his eyes slide over to where Liam’s currently sat in the first row, hands in his lap as he stares up intently at Miss Smith. Like the utter prat he is (Louis says this with begrudging fondness, bless Liam) he actually _waves_ , and eagerly at that—which in turn makes Miss Smith giggle before shyly waving back, just a small flick of her thin wrist, her delicate pearl bracelet fluttering—and the whole affair would be rather adorable if Louis hadn’t already seen it countless times before.

“He always is arse over heels for a pretty face,” he smirks quietly, to which Zayn’s lips twitch and Niall snorts to himself as he looks back down at his scrip, crinkled at the corners from obsessive use.

There’s a few more minutes of shuffling in the hall, voices quieting as everybody takes their seat onstage, heels scuffing wood, frocks rustling, until silence eventually settles like a woolen blanket, thick and clogged by smoke and the buzz of the electric stage lights.

Mr. Styles looks calm and poised as he sits patiently in the middle of the group, face void of emotion as his eyes stare unseeingly into the audience, almost as if he’s not altogether there. The styled swoop of his long hair shines, the hard line of his jaw cuts. Picturesque, Louis thinks, and his lips twitch for a cigarette as Niall lights two beside him—one for himself and one for Zayn.

The heavy scent of tobacco filters through the air and Louis’ lips are dry. Mr. Styles’ eyes are blank, concentrated. The first button of his jacket is coming undone.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Niall suddenly shouts in his ruddy brogue, loud enough to fill the entire space of the theater, rattling some of the dust from the rafters as it echoes and making Louis jump. Yet Zayn, despite his close proximity as well, doesn’t even flinch at the sudden noise as he studies the group with dark eyes, his fingers cradling his chin artfully as he accepts the cigarette from Niall, their fingers brushing.

Together, they wait. The theater waits. Louis waits.

Another few moments of silence, interspersed with murmurs as the actors nod to each other, clearing their throats, tightening their grips on the script.  

And then their narrator—a man named Edward—coughs into his palm before he puffs his chest and words spill from his throat. “Act one, scene one,” he announces and the sentence rings in the quiet hall, everybody still and watching. Smoke wafts near the ceiling in a silver cloud, spectacles balance on the bridges of upturned noses, and notes are already being jotted with inky fountain pens as the man onstage begins reciting his lines seamlessly.  

Yet still, as the play continues in swift succession, character after character being introduced and delivering their lines spotlessly, Louis waits. He waits, fiddling absently with the growing hole in the knee of his trousers as his eyes flit between whoever’s speaking and Mr. Styles, still relaxed in his chair with limbs that are taught despite his slouched back. His eyes are lidded, lowered, dug into the polished floorboards of the stage; his hand grips his knee, knuckles taught against skin. He’s perfectly still. Stone.

Until, suddenly—he stands. Louis blinks, startled, taken off guard by the swift movement as he sucks in a breath and clenches his stomach instinctually, anticipation digging his nails into the cushion of his palms. There, onstage, the actor stands strong, his long, solid figure towering over all as they watch him eagerly with baited breath; all eyes are fixed on Harry Styles as the seconds  pass.

Beside Louis, Niall stops writing notes and Zayn’s fist re-clenches. Louis, himself, stops breathing.

And then Mr. Styles speaks.

“Oh! Were I to be anyone but myself!” he recites without one glance towards the script, voice quiet enough to muss the ragged whispers of his vowels, yet loud enough to echo against the high ceilings, the seats in the balcony.

 Zayn inhales sharply just as Niall exhales. Louis bites the inside of his lip, glancing around the room at the hard, expectant stares.

There’s another pause.

Then, at last, Mr. Styles lifts his hardened gaze from the floor, green eyes seeming to bloom, flushed in color and porcelain emotion as words, vowels, sounds, images, photographs, and bloody stars fall from his lips. Effortlessly, he recites the lines he barely needs to glance at, his script bunched in one of his gesticulating, graceful hands.  

Because when Mr. Styles acts, as Louis discovers while watching with parted lips and bright, glowing eyes, he’s _otherworldly_ , nothing like he’s been the entire time Louis’ seen him here at The Savoy. He’s not ‘The Personality’ that Liam speaks of, the man who delivers quiet lines with a witty smile and wry eyes, bedecked in velvet and pocket squares. He’s not ‘The Awkward Genius’, the man that either stares too intently at Louis or not at all, fists clenched and brow manic as he stumbles over his own words.

No, when he acts… He’s someone else entirely.

He’s alive. He’s real. He is the stage itself. The world quiets around him as his sweeps his arms in gestures that shouldn’t seem as honest as they are. His eyes never break their emotion, gliding across the room, the bodies, the set, all with something so artistically untouchable yet alluring that it makes Louis’ fingers twitch as he watches. His words are like silk, clear and melodic.

“A prisoner within my own world,” he croons, posture grand as one hand clenches at a moon that really isn’t there. The other lies limp at his side, fingers reaching to the hell he wishes of. “A prince surrounded by his kingdom of dungeons, bedecked in jeweled shackles. I wish to be free, Moon. I wish to be nobody for but _one_ night. Allow me but one night,” he beseeches, so lamenting, so lost, that Louis feels the innate desire to stand up and give this prince everything, haphazardly scooped up in armfuls. Louis doesn’t even _have_ anything but, he is sure, he would still give it all to that man onstage.

The rest of the read-through is a blur, a wild ride.

Louis is entranced the entire time, watching with rapt attention as Mr. Styles singlehandedly spins a web. Niall and Zayn seem to be just as transfixed; Niall’s cigarette has burnt to ash, untouched and sizzled as it dangles, forgotten, between his slack fingers. Beside him, Zayn’s mouth lies agape, his eyes unblinking as he absorbs every word, every moment Mr. Styles delivers. Even Miss Smith’s predictably atrocious acting skills don’t dampen the spirit as everyone’s collective breath remains suspended.

The read-through lasts two hours; even with the bumps and blurs and the cracks and Miss Smith’s sporadic giggles whenever Liam applauds immediately after she delivers a line (because, yes, that is a thing), it’s still the best read-through they’ve ever had and, long after everybody’s been dismissed and scattered, mulling about in conversation and critiques, Louis remains in his seat feeling utterly bloody floored.

His heart’s caught in his throat. Mr. Styles is so… _good_. He’s incredible. Amazing. Maybe the best Louis’ ever seen.

Fuck, who’s he kidding—of course he’s the best he’s ever seen.

Standing on shaky legs, Louis manages to finally peel himself off the now-warm velvet of his seat, its springs groaning with his absent weight. Dazed, he walks towards the brightly lit stage, framed by its thick red velvet curtains; there, he sees Miss Smith blushing under Liam’s praise (“You were the best onstage! The best!” he insists, avoiding Zayn’s sharp elbows with practice while Niall barely disguises his chuckles and shakes of the head as he runs through a few spotty lines with Edward), and barely registers the typical disorder of the first rehearsal that swirls around him as he drifts.

His eyes seek Mr. Styles.

Predictably, he’s nowhere to be found.

Heart still lodged in his mouth, Louis meanders his way past the bodies to backstage, feeling the echo of Mr. Styles’ words hum in time to his pulse. This is why he loves acting, this is why he falls in love with it—he can only imagine what it feels like to be the one delivering those lines if _this_ is what it feels like to hear them. He can barely wonder what it must be like to stand up there onstage, changing the atmosphere at whim, controlling the audience with a simple tone, a simple gesture…

For one brief moment, he allows himself to close his eyes and fit himself into those shoes.

But then he opens them and brushes the thought away; no point in losing himself in impossibilities. He’s thankful enough that he can be witness to such talent.

Louis is still so lost in himself, in Mr. Styles, that when he finally barrels through the dressing room door, all semblance of manners is promptly tossed out the window. Because inside is Mr. Styles himself, standing with his broad back to the door, hands clasped behind him, his head bowed. All alone in the middle of the room, silence resting on his firm shoulders.

“You’re bloody incredible,” Louis immediately whispers with awe before he’s even shut the door, his eyes wide.

Startled, Mr. Styles turns, his brows still knit together but his lips loosen upon seeing Louis, his body opening up to his presence. He doesn’t speak, just stares, furrowed eyes flickering to Louis’ lips as the latter slowly shuts the door and tries to piece together what he means to say.

The door shuts with a click. Mr. Styles’ eyes glance to it before they settle back on Louis. He’s statue-still and looks cut from ice; one could almost mistake his seriousness for a glare or contempt but Louis locks into those eyes and doesn’t deter, just presses forward.

“I’ve worked here since I was a boy,” Louis continues, stars most definitely speckling his eyes, “but I’ve yet to see an actor of your caliber, sir. You’re—“ He cuts off, voice faded. He just wants to convey his thoughts, just wants to throw all of his unabashed awe at Mr. Styles’ feet. “Your talent is otherworldly, sir. Bloody phenomenal and—and _moving_ and I just have to say that I’m honored to be working with you. To be in this very room with you, _bloody hell_ —“

Mr. Styles ducks his head then, humbled by the praise though he seems unsure of it. Perhaps he hears this every day. Perhaps he doesn’t believe it.

“I love theater, I take it very seriously,” Louis continues, gesturing towards his heart because that’s all that’s dictating his speech now, all he can rely on. Mr. Styles glances up. “And I’m not just saying this. You do your craft well, _remarkably_ well, and I’m… Well, I’m very excited to embark on this production with you.” He pales a moment, realizing what he’s saying as Mr. Styles continues to just stare, lips shut. “Not that I consider myself to be on the same level as you,” he rushes, apologetic as he takes a step back, “I know I’m far below your station—“

“Don’t do that,” Mr. Styles says quietly, shaking his head. His brows are still pinched, his face still serious. It’s almost difficult to decipher him, especially with how awkward his body language is, belying his impassive features. “Please. I’m no more above you than any man.”

Louis falls silent, surprised.

“And thank you. I’m not quite sure I’m everything you seem to think I am…” he drifts but he watches Louis, one corner of his lips tugging. “But thank you. Genuinely.”

There’s a moment of silence as Louis catches his breath, nodding. He tries to mask his awe a bit—he knows he can be a bit too much.

“It’s an incredible play,” Mr. Styles continues after he finally clears his throat and breaks eye contact. His hands are still clasped behind his back and he paces the room once, as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “He’s a very talented man. Nowadays, all the plays are just commentaries on society but Mr. Malik writes with magical realism and it’s… It’s very refreshing. Much different than the plays I’ve been doing,” Mr. Styles explains, and it’s more than he’s talked since Louis’ met him and it’s still a bit charged, as if he’s nervous, as if he’s forcing the words out in some sort of distraction. “And I welcome it. I’ve… Well, it’s been awhile since I’ve truly loved something I’ve been part of.”

“Has it?” Louis questions unthinkingly, tilting his head. “Do you not have the choice of what you want to do?”

A wry smile paints Mr. Styles’ lips as he casts a glance at Louis, almost shy. For a man who’s tall and dark and utterly regal in his natural fame, he’s very much a boy. “Alas. Things become a bit more convoluted when fortune smiles on you,” is all he says and it prickles a curiosity in Louis’ stomach but he doesn’t press.

“Well, I’m very glad you like Zayn’s work,” Louis continues with a small smile and a shrug. “He has an incredible vision, even if he is a bit mad. A bit very mad. I’m sorry if he’s scared you off at all. He has a way of alienating others, you know,” Louis smiles ruefully, sliding is hands into his pockets. He steps further into the room, leaning on the edge of the vanity and scattering a few random papers that are settled there for no foreseeable reason.

“Yeah, I sort’ve got that vibe,” Mr. Styles says slowly, his smile hesitant to form. It’s very small, very guarded and unsure, but it’s his eyes that refrain Louis from taking offense—they’re the windows to one’s soul, you know. He trusts the warm pull they have for Louis more than any hesitation in his mouth. “I admire a writer with passion, though. He writes from the heart. That’s very rare to find these days.”

“Is it? That’s dreadful,” Louis frowns, swinging one of his legs as he perches further atop the table. “Art should never be something that someone isn’t passionate about. Why else would it be created, you know? It’s not something that should be made for the purpose of its reaction; it should be made for the sole purpose of its _creation_. It’s a selfish thing, but beautifully so. I think that’s the wonder of it though, innit? Something so entirely self-based can be something that other’s can latch onto as well? Make their own? A sort of celebrated selfishness that does more good than not.”

Mr. Styles is staring at him.

“Sorry,” Louis immediately mutters, berating himself internally with a blunt object. “Very sorry. I ramble—you know I always get told off for rambling? I’m a nutter, I really am—“

“I think you’re extremely intelligent,” Mr. Styles counters immediately, voice soft. “If you wish to call interesting conversation rambling, then so be it. But, well…” he drifts a bit, shuffling on the spot after he finally pulls his eyes away, inspecting the opposite wall. “I enjoy your rambling and only hope I can return the favor.”

Louis smiles, the words pleasing. Now this Harry Styles is much, much better than the one he’d had before.

“You sound like an actor,” he comments, observing the man. Mr. Styles’ head snaps up at that, eyes wide and curious, much more expressive than his usual contemplative frown—if one could call it that. “The way you speak is so.... _musical_. Proper.” He grins, tilting his head as he watches the very faintest beginnings of a flush creep up Mr. Styles’ neck.

“Thank…you?” he asks more than accepts, a self-conscious tilt to his mouth.

“Almost sound like Cyril a bit,” Louis continues, grinning when he sees Mr. Styles huff a bit—whether it’s in amusement or petulance, he’s unsure. But it’s a far better reaction that his Personality’s surface witticisms and his Genius’ terrified silence so Louis will take it, will keep pushing for it because it’s nice, it’s refreshing to see. He feels a bit greedy for it. “All that acting going to your head, I suspect. Though, I can’t say I blame you,” he jokes, louder when he sees Mr. Styles opening his mouth to protest in his peripherals. Louis just swings his legs playfully, carefree. (He hopes he isn’t pushing his luck, hasn’t misunderstood the dynamics of their newly formed repertoire.) “I should like to speak like Cryil as well. There’s just something about that character that stays with you, I think. I think that, if I were to play him, I’d probably pick up certain mannerisms as well. He spoke so wonderfully in that play—or, rather, Bernstein did, I suppose, since he wrote it. There’s this passage that I love…” Louis hums, aware of his endless chatter as he looks up to Mr. Styles, bright.

Yet the man doesn’t look put off in the slightest. Rather, he looks curious, his shoulders more relaxed than they have been all day. “Which one?” he asks. “I can remember, I’m sure—I had to memorize those lines for months on end.”

But Louis just smiles, brushing a strand of hair away from his eyes with one hand as he recites:

“ _If I were but an animal, I should be something that could fly, for I wish to flee from this boredom at my every whim,_  
my every hollowed bone. If I were but a flower, I would be the narcissus, so that I may stare at my own reflection,  
unafraid of a fate that could never grace me. If I were but a man, I would change not—for I am everything and more of the man,  
of the animal, of the flower, and I am more vast than the sky that aligns its stars to my form.  
Therefore, I suppose, friend, I wish nothing at all, for I am already everything.  
Though, in this moment as I look upon the everything, perhaps I am nothing, too.  
Perhaps they are the same.”

When he finishes, Louis feels his smile reform, his eyes unglazing from their reverie as they refocus on Mr. Styles—who stares at him with a quiet, barely disguised awe, his own lips still parted on the last word. “You were quoting along with me,” Louis remarks with pleasure.

“It’s my favorite passage, as well,” Mr. Styles replies quietly, seeming caught. “Though, I must admit, I don’t do it justice like you do.”

At this, Louis genuinely flushes, breaking his gaze as he looks down at his hands. “You’re flattering me.”

“Have you ever acted?” Mr. Styles pushes with wonder and his tone is so rich in color that it makes Louis look back up, even if his ears are still on fire.

“No,” he says without much thought or feeling, refusing to give into the inevitable spiral of his thoughts.

Mr. Styles appears taken aback. “Do you wish to?”

There’s a brief pause as Louis goes back to inspecting his hands, his throat a little tight. “No,” he says at last. It’s a lie. He wishes it wasn’t.

“But you’re very talented,” Mr. Styles pushes, taking one hesitant step closer. “Your voice in itself, the _sound_ —“ He stops then, seeming startled with his own words as Louis looks up, delighted.

“My voice?” he questions, hoping to press, but Mr. Styles looks terrified again, a darkened shade of a man.

“You’re very talented,” is all he repeats, before his brows pinch back together and he unflexes one of his hands that Louis hadn’t even realized he’d clenched. “I should be going,” he says suddenly, voice far away as he drags dark, confused eyes across the room to nowhere near Louis. He brushes hair from his eyes with a small frown, fingers almost imperceptibly unsteady.

Alright, then. Back to the awkwardness.

Louis sighs, his hopeful smile fading as he just nods, sliding off the vanity. “Do you need anything before you go? I suspect Zayn and Niall will want to slobber their love all over you—best find them before you leave. And Mr. Higgins, for that matter. He’ll want to sing for you as well.” He smiles, a bit impish, just barely resisting a playful wink. “I’ll bring you barrels to collect all your praises in. That way you won’t have to worry about it spilling everywhere. Wouldn’t want you to trip on your own accolades, sir.”

At that, Mr. Styles huffs again, though it’s far more resembling of a laugh this time, his expression uncoiling almost against his will. “Hush,” he half-smiles, catching Louis’ eye briefly. “You’re going to be very troublesome throughout this production, aren’t you?”

“Well, to be fair, sir, I was told not to be,” Louis reasons, unaffected. “Unfortunately, that had little to no effect on me.”

Mr. Styles chuckles, low. “I can see that. Opening Night is going to be a nightmare with you.”

“Few have survived,” Louis nods seriously, and Mr. Styles chuckles again, eyes brighter. But then he coughs, reassembling himself and looking unsure, a little shy again, and he swipes a hand down his arm.

“Er—I shall be going now. But thank you. And I’ll see you tomorrow? Thank you again. And I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Louis questions, blinking. “Why are you apologizing?”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Styles admits, sheepish. He chuckles again, a little looser even though it’s self-conscious. “Until tomorrow then?”

“Certainly,” Louis nods, though he continues to eye him uncertainly. “Goodbye, Mr. Styles. Have a good evening.”

“You really can call me Harry,” Mr. Styles says gently before he opens the door, hand paused. “I usually am called as such.”

“Even by your other valets?” Louis questions, shocked. “And your staff? And nobody says anything?”

Mr. Styles shrugs. “Not to my face,” he replies, unaffected. “No wounds are ever inflicted head-on. Which is fine by me, it’s the name of the game, I’m afraid.”

“Backstabbing is the name of the game?” Louis questions with a frown.

There’s a pause, the flicker of gas lamps rippling across Mr. Style’s face. His eyes glow then darken, his shadows elongate and shrink. “Games were never meant to be fun,” he says simply, softly.

“I disagree,” Louis replies immediately. “They may become corrupted but they’re meant to be fun. Obviously.”

His only response is a slow but gentle smile from Mr. Styles that disappears as quickly as it’s formed. “Hopefully,” is all he says eventually, before vanishing behind the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii again! I decided to just post this very short chapter because I was going to make it longer but it feels like it should stop here. And rather than have it just sit and wait, I'm just throwing it in! Yayyyyy :) Hopefully I'll be able to write more consistently now that the USA OTRA tour is over (eeps!) and life *should* be a bit calmer. 
> 
> I'm enjoying writing this so thank you all for your loveliness! I've seen some Darcy references about Harry that made me laugh, thank you! :) If you have song recs, I'm always available, darlings. 
> 
> mizzwilde on the tumblr *peace*


	6. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are still weird.

When Louis wakes the next day, the sun’s begun to peak over the horizon, all faint rose and yellow swirls that waver in London’s pollution. Beautiful.

It’s a chilly day, nipping at Louis’ pinkened, runny nose as he hoists himself out of the warm sanctity of his bed, the worn bedsheets rustling as he drags socked feet out and plops them on the cold floor. At least he’s had a good night’s sleep. Should be a decent day at the theater.

The theater.

Mr. Styles.

He runs a sloppy hand through the chaos of his hair, feeling a syrupy smile form as his thoughts echo the name, warbled images from the day before seeping in and out behind his eyes. At long last, it seems he may have finally made some progress with the man. Hopefully, at least.. They’re still not friends by any means but… But, if things keep on the track they’re headed, a camaraderie may indeed form.

He smiles warmer, rubbing fists into his sleep-caked eyes before hoisting himself up, ready for whatever the day has to offer him.

**

“We’ve had a breakthrough, Liam,” Louis announces smugly, slinging an arm around him as they walk down the bustling street, towards the theater. They’re in the midst of the market rush, venders peddling on either side of the muddy streetway, and while the scene is entirely commonplace for Louis, who takes this walk every morning without a seconds’ pause, Liam looks positively appalled.

An errant chicken suddenly rushes by them, followed closely by a child screeching with his arms flung out, nearly knocking them down in his haste. Liam yelps and somehow manages to dodge out of the way just in time, but Louis just beams into the grey-sunny sky undeterred, ignoring the sloppy mud of carriage wheels that’s just speckled his trousers.

“I hate walking,” Liam mutters darkly in lieu of a response, flicking a miniscule plop of dirt off the back of his hand as he throws a repulsed look at the child and the chicken both, respectively. “How do you manage this trek? Why don’t you just take a carriage?”

“Hush Liam, you know the answer to that,” Louis dismisses with a roll of his eyes. “Besides, you could use the exercise. And the character-building, for that matter. You know, while we’re on the subject,” he begins, narrowing his eyes in contemplation as he holds back a smirk, eyeing Liam up with  feigned reproach, “I must say, you’ve grown a lot softer since we were lads.”

“Or maybe you’ve become more barbaric,” Liam counters, cowering closer to the shops and away from the havoc as he shoots Louis a glare. They’ve almost reached the theater now, the large, ornate façade standing tall and proud amidst its mundane surroundings. Beautiful, Louis reckons, smiling to himself. “I’m never listening to you ever again,” Liam continues, tone almost shrill; he’ll make a lovely counterpart to Miss Smith. “We’re taking my carriage next time, I don’t care what you say. This is appalling. _And_ unnecessary,” he adds petulantly, just barely managing to avoid a potentially fresh pile of horse dung.

Honestly, the rich are hopeless.

“It’s not my fault you were shopping at the crack of dawn,” Louis sniffs, unaffected as he struts fearlessly down the street, waving to familiar passerby as he leaves Liam to fend for himself. (He’ll be fine. His trousers were always a bit too clean, anyway.) “You were directly on my walk here—what, you wanted me to ignore you?”

 _“No,”_ Liam replies hotly, in a tone that suggests he finds Louis to have the intelligence of a lobster as he stomps his way onward. “But you could’ve just… I don’t know.” He flutters his hand dismissively, dark eyebrows pulled together tightly enough to give the illusion of one. “Not asked me to walk with you.”

Clever.

“You could’ve declined.”

“That would’ve been rude!”

“As if you’ve never been rude,” Louis snorts, narrowing his eyes as he looks to Liam, suspicious. “Why were you at the market, anyway?”

At this, Liam remains silent, lips pressed tightly together as he stares straight ahead, a forced calm in his expression.

Well, then.

Smug, Louis walks a bit closer, leaning forward in hopes to catch his eye—to no avail. “I noticed you were eying up those lovely bouquets,” he tries, eyebrow climbing.

Silence.

“Beautiful flowers, they were. I don’t suppose you were going to buy some for Miss Smith?”

“Don’t be absurd!” Liam explodes, but a nervous laugh follows the rushed words, his cheeks warm. “I was merely getting some air.”

“Oh, alright, sure,” Louis snorts while Liam shoots him a dark look. “Well, don’t hold back with your courting on my account. Should’ve bought a few dozen, if you ask me. Lord knows you can afford it.”

“Well, I’ve never asked you, did I? Now, _moving on_ ,” he then clips, effectively silencing Louis with a look as he barrels on, voice a smidge too loud to be nonchalant. “You say you and Harry’ve had a breakthrough? Can he stand to be in the same room as you now, then?”

“Oi! He was always able to stand in a room with me…” Louis ruffles indignantly before he drifts off in contemplation. Now that he thinks about it, he’s mildly unsure—Mr. Styles does seem to have a penchant for leaving rooms that Louis enters. Having now reached the theater, he pulls the heavy door open by its polished gold handle, stepping back to allow Liam first entry as is custom. When they step inside the dark corridor, their heels echoing off the marble floors, the thick sound of chatter wafts in from the stage hall, cigars and paint invade their nostrils.

“Regardless, though,” Louis continues with a shrug, glancing at Liam with a hopeful half-smile, “I think we could be on our way to proper mates.”

“Oh yeah? That’s brilliant, Lou. Knew you could fix your mistakes,” Liam brightens, clapping a hand on Louis’ back once while the other smoothes his oiled hair down self-consciously, as though it could possibly move with all that pomade.

They’re just rounding the corner, past the ticket booths and staircases that lead to the balconies, when suddenly a lone figure comes into view, slender in midnight blue and a forest green jacket, its fur trim collar thick and soft beneath stray tresses of curls. Stoic, smooth, and lovely, Harry Styles’ eyes fall on the pair, widening ever so slightly in surprise as he slows to a stop.

“Good morning, Harry!” Louis chirps immediately, tipping his hat with a wide smile as he stands before him, Liam at his side.

Mr. Styles looks startled. “Mr. Tomlinson,” he blurts, barely glancing at Liam. “Hello. Er—good morning, rather.” He coughs, short, before assembling his face into one of fixed concentration, standing stiff and tall as a flagpole.  “Because it’s morning,” he adds unhelpfully, appearing very serious as he flits a spidery hand to the window before it drops heavily and he looks determinedly past Louis, lips pursed, brow furrowed.

A lovely boulder of awkward silence ensues. Louis can practically feel Liam’s eyebrows climb as the seconds pass.

“Er. Have you just arrived?” Louis asks in a less-than-casual voice, beginning to feel rather bloody silly as his smile dims, shuffling from foot to foot. Restless, he removes his cap, sliding fingers through his hair.

For a moment, Mr. Styles watches the movement, still as stone. “Yes.” It’s not curt, but it’s certainly jilted.

Right, then. Maybe no progress after all.

“I’m sorry I’m late?” Louis attempts, unsure, ribbons of tension tangling in the air between them. They tighten around Louis’ ankles. “I’ll be in the room right away. Promise.” He smiles, attempting the easiness he’d felt only yesterday while in the man’s presence.

“No need to apologize,” Mr. Styles just murmurs in a monotone, shaking his head.

It’s like talking to a broomstick.

After what feels like hours of awkward scrutiny, Mr. Styles finally seems to fully register Liam’s presence, his expression brightening into something easy as his eyes rip away from a very perplexed Louis. “Liam! My good man. How are you this fine morning?” he asks comfortably, offering his hand to be shook, eyes slitting with genuine merriment.

And Louis just bloody gapes, is what he does.

Good man? Fine morning? How are you this _fine morning?_ Louis’ lucky if he gets offered a primitive grunt by way of a greeting and bloody Liam gets _how are you this fine bloody morning??_

He tries not to huff as his smile falls clean off his face, all easiness vanishing as Liam smiles like honey, all pleasant and rich and blessed by the gods. “Lovely, thank you. Though I did find myself roughing it a bit,” he says pleasantly as he flicks his eyes to Louis and oh, please.

Blatantly, Louis rolls his own to the heavens. “Walking isn’t roughing it, Liam,” he sighs. “Christ’s sake, you’re a bit dramatic.”

“It constitutes as ‘roughing it’ when you’re walking in a trough,” he shoots back, withering.

Unimpressed, Louis levels him with a look. “Don’t worry, your trousers look fine. Miss Smith will still talk to you.”

Liam gasps. _“Louis!”_ he hisses, appalled, as he flits not-so-subtle eyes in Mr. Styles’ direction; but the latter is watching the exchange with faint amusement, a smile dusting his mouth.

“Well, I don’t wish to keep you,” he remarks low, almost a purr, and Louis notes that his buttonhole is a daisy. It’s sweet. “I’m sure we’ll find ourselves in conversation soon enough, Liam. Send my regards to Miss Smith if you see her before I do?” Liam actually blushes at that, to which Louis inwardly victory crows as he looks to Mr. Styles appraisingly, watching the way the words fall from his lips, steady and rhythmic like a pulse. “And I shall meet you in the dressing room then, Mr. Tomlinson? I don’t need much tended to today so it shouldn’t be an ordeal of any kind.”

Sigh. Of course not.

“Louis. Call me Louis,” Louis corrects, instinctually fast, as he feels himself straighten and nod. “And yes, sir. I’ll be in right away, sir.”

Mr. Styles nods once in return, eyes lingering on Louis for one silent moment, his eyebrow twitching, before he finally continues on his way, his pace slower and unsure. His eyes flash to Louis as he walks past him, lightning fast. Louis almost wonders if he’s imagined it.

Sighing, he turns to watch his figure retreat, feeling his shoulders slump as Liam eyes him closely.

“I thought you said things were getting better.”

“Yeah, well,” Louis grumbles, glaring at the man’s back. “Apparently not.”

And Liam merely chuckles, pulling a grumpy Louis in by his shoulders as they continue walking down the corridor, all the while as Liam waxes poetic on Miss Smith’s eyes.

**

When Louis finally arrives at the dressing room, he’s a little later than he’d expected.

See, as he was making his way backstage, he’d been held up by the sudden appearance of Zayn, who whisked him away with unyielding hands and liquor on his breath.

“Louis. Tell me. What do you see when you see the color red?”

Louis stared.

“I see…the color red?” he tried, eyebrows climbing as Zayn gripped his arms and stared into his soul.

“Don’t be daft, what do you _see?”_

“Er—passion? Fire? Blood? Someone asking for help because they’re being squeezed to death?”

“Yes,” Zayn nodded earnestly, eyes still scorching through Louis’ skull. “Yes, good. She needs passion, fire, blood. Yes, thank you, Lou…” he muttered before suddenly releasing Louis, lost in thought as he stormed off, his scarf unraveling from his thin neck and tumbling down his shoulders.

Louis stood there for a moment, less bewildered than he should’ve been, probably. But Zayn is Zayn and Louis’ dealt with his random bouts of madness for countless years now, so. So it’s just another day.

Shrugging, Louis continued on his way, a little skip in his step as he made his way to the dressing room, beam already in place as he shoved open the glossy wood with his palm, mouth open on a greeting—

Only to find the room empty, replaced by the heavy presence of disappointment.

And so here he is, standing like a bloody fool as he wordlessly closes his mouth, his entire posture sinking like a fallen marionette, eyes pinned to the wardrobe where Mr. Styles’ jacket hangs in all its fur and green glory. Mocking Louis.

 _I’ll be in the dressing room_ , my arse.

Closing his eyes against the disappointment, Louis sighs, letting his hand slip down the door pathetically, his footsteps creaking loud in the silent room as he makes his way inside.

Maybe he came too late. Maybe he was insolent earlier. Maybe Mr. Styles never even waited.

Regardless. No point in sitting in an empty room trying to figure out what the hell’s going on with some mad, moody actor who may or may not still find Louis mildly repulsive.

Without giving way to his frown _or_ his disappointment, he unpockets today’s book from his trousers with only a hint of defeat, casting one last glance at the jacket in the corner (definitely mocking him) before he slouches out into the bowels of the stage, hidden from view. Something sludgy sits in his stomach, weighing him down with every step as he creeps behind the thick curtains, faint speckles of dust clinging to the fabric. It almost sparkles when the lights catch.

“Harry, I want you to just give it a go—just deliver the lines how you see best and we’ll go from there, alright?”  Niall’s voice drifts as Louis nears the stage, hidden from view in brown shadows, dust, ropes, and creaky floorboards. “I want to see what you do with it first. Go on.”

Niall is always so blunt and sure, his words firm in their direction with little to no ornamentation; but he never sounds cross or harsh. Just intent. Focused. Passionate, even. Louis’ always admired Niall and the manner in which he directs.

Peeking out from behind the curtain, Louis feels a slight curl in his stomach as he catches sight of Mr. Styles’ back. Well-trimmed and clean, his hair perfectly styled in that same manner where it always appears like it’s not. He stands tall, fizzing with withheld energy that Louis can feel from here, even with the heavy, dusty curtains, even with the disappointment and perplexities and confusions and frustrations.

Mr. Styles nods in time with Niall’s words, focused and intent, completely unbeknownst to the presence behind him. “Alright,” he mumbles, quiet, but even that small, small word manages to hold some heart.

Then Niall nods to Zayn—who blinks steadily from his seat in the audience, legs crossed, arms crossed, unlit cigarette dangling between bitten lips—and retreats with a hop off the stage, leaving Harry to stand alone against bright, blinding lights and empty seats.

When he begins, his voice echoes against the vaulted ceilings and quivers in the air, ghostly. Easy as breathing, he delivers his lines with all the poise of a mythical creature, all the tightly wound coils of his body coming undone with every word, every step, every gesture of his large, smooth hands that Louis finds himself marveling at, wondering if they feel as soft as they appear. An odd thought. He brushes it away.  

But it’s no question that Mr. Styles is incredible. There’s no bloody question. Even from this distance, Louis can see the way Zayn’s eyes sparkle as he watches, licking his lips eagerly as he nods along with each word, a rare smile pushing at his mouth. Niall looks similarly enthralled, an impressed lift to his chin as he locks his gaze on Mr. Styles in an unblinking stare, absorbing, absorbing, absorbing. They’re drinking him in it seems and Mr. Styles is only too happy to quench their thirst, jumping through every hoop they toss him with maddening ease.

A sudden inexplicable spark of irritation ignites in Louis’ stomach at the sight. At how Mr. Styles smiles so easily around fictional words, at how he meets Zayn and Niall’s eyes so easily, how his every limb and joint, every movement is a dance, a waltz, a performance.

And yet. Somehow. The man can’t even allow Louis the time of day. Won’t even allow him to do his bloody job when his bloody job is all that Louis has.  

Sour, he releases the curtain, stepping back from the scene as Mr. Styles’ woolen voice carries through the hall, the stage lights illuminating his silhouette in gold. He sounds ethereal and brilliant and a little mad and Louis wants to push him off the stage.

With a frown, he slinks back into the shadows, cracking open the spine of his book with a begrudging sigh as he settles deeper into a nook he’s found for himself, reading lines he’s already read countless times.

**

The morning is long and uneventful.

From his nest backstage, Louis can hear the all of the discourse onstage, can hear Miss Smith struggle through her lines as Liam negates any and all of Zayn’s advice; he can also swear he hears the grinding of the latter’s teeth. Zayn always comes close to killing Liam during production. Niall usually needs to brush fingers down his back and hand him cigarettes and/or alcohol. He can hear the squabbles amongst the crew, the bickering of actors—even the disagreements between Zayn and Niall themselves.

“I want her to speak louder. Stand in the middle of the bloody stage and own the lines, goddammit,” Niall argues, frustrated.

But Zayn’s smoky voice just purrs back, sure and steady: “That’s not what the line is about, Niall. She’s meant to read it in a monotone; there’s little feeling. It won’t give the right impression if she screams it.”

A brief silence, tense and pulsating.

Then, “Yeah, alright. Do as Zayn says,” Niall relents and Louis just shakes his head with a smirk because Niall never listens to anyone, _anyone_ , except Zayn. Ever.

Briefly, he wonders where Mr. Styles is, as he hasn’t heard him for quite awhile now…

But then he remembers that he’s probably not meant to know and he brushes the thought away, returning to his book.

**

It must be afternoon when Louis sighs and finally emerges from the dark corners of backstage, only going as far as the seats in the audience so that he can slump into the chair beside Zayn, who’s now guzzling a chipped teacup with a fervor that suggests it’s not caffeine that he’s indulging in.

“Thirsty?” Louis murmurs with amusement as he raises his brows.

Zayn quirks one of his own, wiping amber liquid from his darkened lips with the back of his hand; his eyes glisten, his hair is greasy beneath his trilby, suspenders slipping off this thin shoulders. There’s a stain on the off-white of his shirt, his beard is patchy from the bits he missed while shaving. He still manages to look unkempt and beautiful and rather intimidating though as he observes Louis like he were kept behind glass, seeming frail and debauched as he clasps his now-empty teacup.

“Miss Smith will be the death of me,” is all he replies, voice dead, and Louis can’t help but burst out a surprised laugh. The sound makes Zayn’s lips quirk, though his eyes don’t look any less sallow, drifting in the direction of the stage. “Even with the godsend that is Harry Styles, it may not save my play.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Niall mumbles from Zayn’s other side, not even bothering to look up from the letter he’s currently writing, letters sloppy and sloped.

Scowling, Zayn leans closer to him. “She’s a hyena, Niall.”

“She’s passable.”

Zayn snorts. “Hardly! She’s a trainwreck.”

“She’ll improve.”

“I’ve yet to see that theory prove true.”

“It’s only the second day.”

“It may as well be the first.”

“Well, I like her,” Louis interjects with a shrug, happy to be occupying his thoughts with something other than his novel, his boredom, or Mr. Styles.

At the words, Niall and Zayn pause in their bickering, both sets of eyes zeroing in on him; Niall looks dubious, Zayn looks unimpressed.

“What?” Louis asks, defensive. “She’s nice. And she’s trying.”

“Trying? Is that how one describes a dog that repeatedly walks into a wall?” Zayn blinks languidly while managing to look haughty and laughably pretentious.

Niall coughs to disguise his surprised laugh, a hand flitting up to bite his finger as he keeps his eyes planted on his letter.

Louis actually laughs aloud, shaking his head as he buries his eyes in the palm of his hand. “You’re such a bloody prick,” he snorts, but he catches the amusement in Zayn’s eyes as he lights a cigarette and it just makes him laugh again, exasperated.

**

About an hour later, Louis starts to get fidgety, refusing to succumb to his curious thoughts.

He hasn’t seen Mr. Styles much today, hasn’t heard him spoken of. Normally he’d ask Liam of his whereabouts but the lad’s too busy following Miss Smith around like a lost pup, only dropping by once in awhile to whisper newfound gossip or peer at the script over Zayn’s shoulder (who glowers—“Get your own fucking script, you nuisance.” “I’ve tried. You won’t give me one,” Liam glares back, pouty, to which Niall wordlessly hands him one, much to Zayn’s shock and Liam’s delight) and leaves just as quickly as he’d come, waving goodbye over his shoulder cheerily. Louis always waves back because he’s kind like that, smirking while he lies kicked back and sprawled in the rigid confines of his seat. (They really do need to make these things more comfortable, maybe a centimeter or three wider.)

He’s just running his fingers across the page of his book, dusting fingerprints over his favorite sentences and imprinting them further to memory, when he feels a sudden shadow fall over him, a presence at his side. Expecting to see Niall or Zayn or even Liam, he looks up, throwing his head back from where he’s lounging in his the same seat he’s occupied for a handful of hours now—

And meets eyes with Mr. Styles.

“Sir,” he greets, a little startled as he straightens and drops his feet to the ground, closing his book with a thunk. There’s a set blankness to Mr. Styles’ face, one that almost looks rehearsed; Louis wonders if he’s acting now, if he always acts in some way. If he can tell the difference, even. He’s just so odd.

Mr. Styles nods in greeting. “I was just looking for Mr. Malik. Or perhaps Mr. Horan?”

Disappointed, Louis sighs, shaking his head as he already sets back to open his book. “Haven’t seen them for a bit. Suspect they’re trying to coax a few decent lines out of Miss Smith, though.”

“Oh?” Mr. Styles asks, brow furrowing. “Are they having trouble with her?”

Louis levels him with a look.

Can he really not tell how awful she is? Is he just being polite?

“To put it mildly,” he admits after a pause, book still closed as he eyes Mr. Styles closely. “Zayn’s one step away from locking her in a chest and shipping her out the country. I think he’s being hard on her though, the poor thing. At least she’s got a lovely smile and a good heart.”

Mr. Styles purses his lips. “Indeed.”

There’s a moment’s pause, stiff as it usually is between them Louis can’t help but lament the easiness with which they conversed yesterday. It already feels centuries ago, the way he’d managed to actually tease the fellow, procuring laughter and smiles that weren’t on the verge of pained.

“What are you reading?”

Surprised, Louis looks up to find him eyeing the book with curiosity; he looks odd though, a little discomforted as he bites his lip, shuffling from foot to foot. “Oh, just a novel,” he shrugs dismissively, though his stomach warms as his hand settles on the cover, reverent. “Dickens. I know—I’m not terribly original.” He half-smiles, gesturing to the torn cover of his book, the faded letters and chipped pages. “But books are hard to come by and I’ll take what I can get. I love reading. Give me any story and I’ll devour it.” He shrugs again, a little sheepish.  

“Is that why you’re so drawn to acting?” Mr. Styles asks, seeming genuinely curious as he studies Louis closely through a stray lock of hair, head tilted at an angle that alights the left side of his face. Smooth and bright. “Because you love stories?”

Louis blinks, pondering. “I suppose so, yeah? I never really thought about it… But yes. I guess I just enjoy losing myself in a world that’s a bit more exciting than this one. Not that I don’t appreciate my life—I wouldn’t change it for anything, even if given the chance.”

“No?” Mr. Styles asks, settling into himself once more as his eyes flit across Louis’ face, a sort of wonder in his expression. “You wouldn’t change any aspect of it? None at all?”

“No, of course not,” Louis replies instantly, bemused. “I’ve got nothing to complain about. I’ve good mates and a good job and plenty of entertainment. I’m surrounded by odd characters and get to work with real talents—such as yourself—and I’m never wanting for anything.”

“Never?” Mr. Styles questions, soft.

“Never,” Louis answers decisively, though there’s something curious in his chest, stirring the longer Mr. Styles watches him, quiet. The pale ghost of a frown settles around his mouth and Louis feels it begin to mirror in his own lips. “Do you?” he asks before he realizes. “Want for anything?”

There’s a silence that follows the question, long enough that Louis thinks it’s probably very telling. But he waits anyway, curious and unsure as he grips his book, the stage bustling in the distance.

“Nothing that seems plausible,” Mr. Styles shrugs at last, tracing the back of one of the chairs with long fingers, eyes cloudy and averted. His eyelashes are very long; they look soft. Louis imagines they’d feel like moth’s wings against his fingertips. “I don’t know. I’m not sure. I suppose I do find myself bored a lot…”

 _“Bored?”_ Louis questions incredulously, edging forward in his seat as he stares up at Mr. Styles with wide eyes. Stunned, he leans his elbows on his knees, shaking his head as he chuckles to himself at  the absurdity of the thought. “How could you possibly be bored? With the productions you’ve done, the people you’ve met—the people you associate with even now! And you’ve traveled, yes? Left England?”

Mr. Styles nods, though he looks unimpressed by the notion. As if it were ordinary. “I’ve been many places. America, all across Europe—“

“America??” Louis repeats, intrigued. He grins, feeling his face light up as he leans still closer, an eagerness filling his limbs at the notion. Surprisingly, Mr. Styles doesn’t retreat at the sudden movement, just adopts a small but rather shy smile that he averts after he’s held Louis’ earnest eyes for more than five seconds. “What’s it like? That’s incredible, sir. Surely you can’t have been bored there?”

Again, he shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess not? I didn’t really get to do much outside of the play… It was more of a business trip.”

“But you must’ve gone to parties,” Louis pushes, his words ripe with barely contained excitement. “Met other actors? Celebrities of all sorts! You brushed elbows with the greats, sir. Legends, I suspect. You’re a part of history, you are. Immortal!”

“Yes, I went to parties,” Mr. Styles chuckles, unsure, looking down at his hands. Absently, he fiddles with his rings, smile diminishing into a neutral line. “All of those things you mentioned, I did, yes. But it was never…” He licks his lips, eyes sweeping around the room before they settle on Louis at last. He pauses, seeming curious, perhaps confused, as he watches him. “I didn’t have much choice of what to do, where to go, who to be seen with. I suppose that I must confess it was hard for me to see outside of it all. You make it all sound so grand…”

“It _is_ grand,” Louis insists, though his smile lessens at the implication in the words.

A gentle look overcomes Mr. Styles, accompanied by a small but genuine smile. “Yes. I suppose you are right.”

There’s an intensity to his face as he stares at Louis, unmoving and unblinking, one hand rested on the back of the opposite chair. He stands tall, lean, the blue of his suit rich in color and texture, embroidered with delicate designs Louis can hardly trace with his eyes. One of his legs is kicked behind him, as if in pose, yet it seems utterly natural to him and he’s handsome and glorious, Louis thinks, but he’s also very not—he’s very human. Curious and mad and odd and…human. It’s a discovery that Louis welcomes happily.

“Do you read often?” Mr. Styles asks randomly, still posed in thought though his expression is softer, more natural.  

“I do,” Louis nods, pleased. “Usually in between my work.” He meets Mr. Styles’ eye with a glint. “ _Especially_ when I’ve nothing to do because the man I’m meant to look after won’t seem to let me.” The tone is teasing but it’s accompanied by a pointed look that has Mr. Styles look away.

A slight flush blooms across his skin. “I don’t wish to trouble you.”

“I rather enjoy being troubled,” Louis counters simply. “It’s my job, sir. I like tending to the actors.”

Mr. Styles eyes him doubtfully. “But surely there’s something you’d rather be doing?”

Louis shakes his head. “There isn’t. Actually…” He stands, allowing himself to stretch to full height as he looks Mr. Styles in the eye, his limbs crackling in relief; he’s been sitting for most of the day and, alas, he’s just not as young as he used to be. “The only thing I really want to do is talk to you.”

At this, Harry seems truly startled, skin flushing still more. “Me?” he questions, baffled as he takes a step back. “Why me?”

“Because! You’re brilliant, sir— _Harry_ ,” he corrects with a half-smile, watching as Mr. Styles blinks in quick succession. “Surely you know that? Your life is so interesting and full of stories and experiences—so full of everything. Me, I’ve only known London all me life, only the theater, and only the handful of people who pass through these doors come year after year. And, bloody hell, I’m thankful every day for what I have but even I can’t help but wonder what it’s like to live a life like yours. To wake up with all that—that _opportunity_ lying at your feet. To see countries I’ve only ever read about, to live a life whose sole purpose is art? It’s just… It’s fascinating, sir. You’re like a story in yourself—one I’d especially love to devour.”

Once the words are out, he feels his neck warm with fire, suddenly very aware of the dark eyes that watch him with barely contained fascination, only a mere step away. Mr. Styles’ lips are parted on a breath, his head tilted as he listens and he looks enthralled yes, but probably completely shocked because Louis is overstepping his boundaries right now, he’s saying mad things, he’s being—being just _absurd_. If Liam were here, he’d swat him over the head with his cane for just how damn _appalling_ Louis is. Always is.  

“I’m sorry,” he blurts as quickly as he can, biting the cushion of his lip as he drops his gaze, pained. His neck still burns, his hands burn, his ears burn. The tips of his cheekbones feel licked with embers, he’s so bloody embarrassed. Why doesn’t he think before he speaks? “I apologize, sir. I didn’t mean—that probably sounded—“

“You make it all seem so much more than it is,” Mr. Styles interjects softly as Louis looks up at the words. He looks sad now, maybe hopeful? Wistful, maybe. But definitely not disgusted or appalled or any of the other things Louis was so sure he’d find.

Stilling, Louis finds his breath again, skin calming in its flare. “Maybe you make it seem less,” he counters just as softly, a little unsure, and it makes Mr. Styles stare at him all the harder.

Their eyes remain locked and Louis swears, just for a moment, that his heartbeat echoes in the hall.

What’s _wrong_ with him?

But it’s just as Mr. Styles is opening his mouth to reply, eyes large and wondrous and soft, when suddenly Niall’s voice cracks between them, effectively splitting them into two and disassembling whatever it was that had begun to settle.

“Oi! Harry!,” he bellows in his thick brogue, vein prominent in his neck. “Onstage now!”

As one, they both look to where Niall’s already up there, flanked by Zayn and Miss Smith as he holds his script, gesturing with one extended hand eagerly, a touch impatiently. A pencil sits precariously behind his ear, threatening to fall with every jaunty movement.

“Found them,” Louis offers with a faint smile, turning back to Mr. Styles.

Apologetically, he meets his eye. “I apologize, I really must—“ he starts, sounding like he means it, but Louis brushes it away with his wrist, unbothered.

“You really are ridiculous with your apologies,” he smiles, secretly pleased. Rarely does he get this sort of respect, handed over so simply as if it were custom. “Go on, then. I’ll see you in the dressing room later? I’ll bring you tea, or something. Arrange your boots.”

Mr. Styles’ eyes flit all over Louis’ face as a smile dots his lips before he begins to retreat, walking backwards. “Alright,” he nods, making everything sound simple again. “Until then.”

Louis nods, amused. “Until then.”

And then Mr. Styles turns around, stalking up to the stage with his long legs as Louis watches him, intrigued, so lost in his gaze that he doesn’t even register Liam’s presence until he feels a bump against his side. He jumps, startled, before he meets Liam’s pleased brown eyes.

“You’ve made a friend,” he quips happily in greeting.

“I hope so,” Louis shrugs, trying to tamp down his hopeful grin. “But even if I haven’t—you’ve certainly found yourself besotted again, haven’t you, Liam? Tell me, is Miss Smith as lovely as she appears to be?”

“Oh, far more lovely,” Liam replies seriously. “I think I love her, Louis.”

A surprised cough of laughter falls from Louis’ lips.

“I’m serious!” Liam insists, his bowler hat slightly askew. The chain of his pocketwatch glimmers with each movement. “I love her!”

“I’m sure you do,” Louis indulges, patting Liam’s back as he leads him out of the hall, glancing back to Mr. Styles only once.

He finds him looking back, lips pressed and eyes unreadable as Zayn prattles endlessly to him. Louis holds the contact for just one, two, three seconds before he snaps his gaze away, falling back into step with Liam.

**

When Louis opens the door to the dressing room after rehearsals have been dismissed, he’s half expecting to be met with an empty room once more. But, to his surprise, he finds Mr. Styles instead.

“Oh!” Louis blinks upon entering, finding the man standing stiffly, almost impatiently, by the vanity, back leaned against the wall.

“Hello,” he greets back, emotionless despite the soft red in his neck, the points of his cheekbones. His lips are a shocking shade, as if he’d just indulged in red wine, and his eyes shine with a soft gloss that Louis marvels at. Everything about the man is entrancing.

“I thought you’d have left, if I’m being honest,” he says, stepping further into the room. The lamps are lit, Mr. Styles’ jacket hangs in the open wardrobe, a few of his things are scattered about: a spare pare of polished shoes, a few books, a hat, one lone lily that leans in its thin glass vase, rested on the vanity. Everything looks more lived in, less cold and distant, and Louis always loves this feeling—when his actors begin to bleed into the theater, leaving their traces behind.

“No,” Mr. Styles shakes his head, quiet. He’s watchful and still, hands clasped in front of him. “Told you I’d be here, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he nods with a smile, making his way over to him with practiced ease. Humming, he unravels the small satchel he keeps in the drawer, procuring brushes and combs with nimble fingers, feeling the man’s eyes on him. Just as he’s raising his brush to sweep the stray bits of lint and dust off of Mr. Styles’ jacket, he pauses, peering over to look at him. “Er. You didn’t actually want any tea, did you?” he asks a little nervously, realizing he’s come empty handed.

A wry smile paints Mr. Styles’ features as he shakes his head, briefly catching Louis’ gaze. “No, thank you,” he responds, amused. “But, uhm. Mr. Tomlinson? Louis? May I have a word? Just for a moment, if it’s no trouble or—or if you have the time—“

“Clearly, I have the time,” Louis assures with a small smile, aiming for gentle as he resists shaking his head with exasperation because, really. Where does this man’s easy confidence go when he’s with Louis? Why can he wield an audience but not one man? “Go on, please. Is everything alright, sir?”

“Oh yes, more than,” Mr. Styles nods, though his expression doesn’t exactly match the words. But he doesn’t look menacing or fearful so Louis accepts them at face value, nodding for him to continue. “I just wish to apologize.”

“Always apologizing,” Louis mumbles but he shuts his mouth when Mr. Styles gives him a pointed look, lips twitching.

“I know I haven’t been very receptive to your help. I must confess, I’ve never been very good with all of…this.” He pauses, seeming to struggle with the words. “But I know the customs and I apologize if I’ve offended you or given you the wrong impression. Truthfully, I can become so wrapped up in my job that I sometimes forego social customs or—well, just my general behavior, I guess. I don’t have much self-awareness, I’ve been told,” he smiles wryly. “But I will put a conscious effort into being more receptive to your generosity. I promise.”

Tilting his head, Louis observes him, watching the concentration writ across his face, his dark brows, his earnest frown. It’s rather sweet, all in all.

“Is it easy? To get lost in your craft?” Louis asks curiously after a moment, mulling over the words.

A flicker of surprise passes Mr. Styles’ face but he nods after a moment, calm.  “It is. Because it’s an entire world you build within yourself and it can be really difficult to achieve that sometimes... You just have to pull your soul in a different direction almost. It’s very hard to explain.”

Nodding along with the words, Louis sweeps the brush across the planes of Mr. Styles’ back, feeling the man stiffen with every touch. He frowns, caught between rapt attention at his words and bewilderment at his actions. “How do you focus?” he questions then, hoping to distract as much as he wishes to learn. “Is it hard?”

There’s a brief pause where Mr. Styles seems to ponder the words, shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. “Well, sometimes I need to just wander away,” he says slowly, thoughtfully. “By myself. Take a walk or sit or just _leave_ and…zone out, I guess. Directors hate me for it because I don’t ever give them any warning when I do it.  So they can never find me and it usually turns into a bit of a mess”—Louis can’t see his face but he hears the impish amusement in his voice, the way his lips form the words—“and I’ve been told off for it more than once. But I enjoy it—knowing that nobody knows where I am. If only for a couple moments.” He smiles after a beat, small. “I don’t typically tell people that.”

Louis’ eyes flicker up to Mr. Styles’ profile. “Why? Because you don’t want to be found?” he asks as he brushes the stray flecks of dust and hair from Mr. his back, focused.

“No,” he replies simply, shaking his head. He blinks, languid, glancing a brief smile over his shoulder. “I just don’t think anybody’s ever asked.”

“Really?” Louis’ brow furrows as he steps back to fetch Mr. Styles’ coat, casting a curious glance back at him. “I find that awfully hard to believe. I’d expect everyone to be picking your brain, trying to find out your secrets. Not many talents like you, sir.”

“I mean. They do try to pick my brain, I suppose,” Mr. Styles contemplates, watching Louis closely as his expression clouds with thought. He’s washed in honey-gold light, looking soft and youthful despite the hollows of his eyes and Louis finds himself lost in the somehow frail sight of him as he makes his way back, coat in hand. But then he swallows and looks away, focusing on the soft fur beneath his palms instead as he slides it over Mr. Styles’ arms, listening as his deep voice reverberates through the room. “I guess they just don’t ask the right questions.”

Louis laughs, soft. “Oh. Well, lucky for you, I happen to be very good at that.”

“That, you are.”

There’s something in the tone, perhaps appreciation or maybe even amusement, that makes Louis glance up as he buttons Mr. Styles’ coat, fingers catching on the fabric. He finds him already looking down at him with an odd expression, his lips pulled oddly, eyes giving nothing away, eyebrows relaxed. But his stare is still somehow striking and Louis can only meet it with a smile, something swimming in his bloodstream as the seconds pass.

He blinks, hoping to unscramble his brain.

“There,” he finds himself saying quietly after the moment become almost tangible, taking a step back as he brushes hands down Mr. Styles’ newly-groomed coat, to which the latter makes note of with his eyes, dark and watchful, hair framing his face so softly. The sight makes Louis feel the need to clear his throat, adopting an easy smile as he sucks in as much air as he can through his nostrils. “All done. Do you need anything else, sir?”

A light shake of the head is all Mr. Styles procures as he watches Louis turn around and assemble his things, hands jumpy as they clatter and quake. There’s something charged in the air,  a little disjointed and unsure, but as the time passes, a sort of calm blankets everything, warming the shadows and settling amidst the dust.

Louis breathes, slow and steady, still feeling Mr. Styles’ eyes as he begins to make his exit slowly, footsteps creaking.

 “Until tomorrow?” the aforementioned suddenly calls from the door, pausing as he opens it.

Louis smiles over his shoulder, the warmest one he can deliver as he folds the brushes and combs into their smooth fabric satchel, worn with use. “Until tomorrow,” he nods, exposing his teeth with a grin.

Mr. Styles stares impassively for all of two minutes before he finally leaves.

**

The rest of the week moseys along at a pace that Louis really can’t quite stand.

It’s not that he’s bored, per se—Mr. Styles has kept his promise and has been much better at receiving help. It’s just that he’s very low maintenance and seems to be avoiding as much personal contact with Louis as possible, freezing up at every brush of Louis’ hand, jumping with every swipe of the comb across his back, his chest. Failing to always meet his eye and sometimes closing in on himself, rehearsing his lines under his breath with a fervor that prevents Louis from daring to open his mouth, lest he disturb the mechanics at work. For, despite the banter that still sporadically unravels between them, the banter that blooms so easily with Louis’ easy manner and unabashed questions that Mr. Styles seems to enjoy more than spurn, the man is still so hesitant, so chilled, so unsure with him.

Occasionally, the mild terror still sits in his eyes when he watches Louis, something trapped and reckless lying amidst the calm green. He nearly looked like he’d witnessed a murder on the day Louis’d had to spend nearly four hours in the rafters, helping mend a pulley that’d finally crumbled after years of arduous use; he’d been covered in grime and sweat when was finally able to shimmy down the rope ladder they’d hung for him and Roger, hair damp and plastered to his pink forehead as he grunted and flexed sore muscles.

“You look a complete mess,” Liam had stated bluntly, eyeing his rumpled trousers, the sweat stains on his white shirt. Wrinkling his nose, he met Louis’ eye. “Need a new one? I’m sure Caroline’s got something on hand. There’s no possible way you can walk around like this, Louis. Father will have a fit.”

“He will not,” Louis sighed but he peeled off the smelly, damp fabric of his shirt nonetheless, tossing it onto the ground as far away from him as possible, happy to let his skin breathe. He was just about to open his mouth to continue, when suddenly voices began to drift towards them, warbled in their echo as they gained momentum and volume.

As one, Louis and Liam lifted their heads in the direction, curious.

“Of course we’ll need you and Miss Smith to rehears alone, given that we need to work on your chemistry,” an Irish voice carried, steady and quick. “And, while we’re on the subject, Higgins suggested that it wouldn’t hurt to be seen—Christ, Lou!” Niall suddenly gaped as he came into view, staring at Louis’ naked torso with wide, critical eyes. Beside him, Zayn and Mr. Styles froze.

And Louis positively shrank, regretting every life choice he’d made up to that moment.

Liam, however, looked thrilled. “He was more disgusting with his shirt _on,_ ” he explained not-so-helpfully, but it made Niall chuckle and Zayn smirk as they promptly turned around, guiding Mr. Styles away. Who, at that moment, looked as pale as bleached linen, eyes threatening to pop out of their sockets.

Faintly, Louis registered the man’s eyes gliding across the contours of his chest—before they promptly snapped away, looking positively tortured. Louis felt his skin redden in shame, ducking his head. No doubt he was probably going to be dismissed after this.

“Sorry, sir,” he apologized sincerely, too embarrassed to meet his eye.

But Mr. Styles never replied, too busy being whisked away by an exasperated Niall and a quietly amused Zayn. Liam broke out into hysterics the minute they left and it was all very horrid, indeed.

To this day, Mr. Styles hasn’t quite been the same, always averting his eyes and stuttering through sentences that generally don’t make much sense to begin with. It’s disappointing and only a little surprising given the man’s behavioral history, so Louis can only shrug it off, book in hand.  

With everyone else, however, Mr. Styles is much the same. Humorous and clever, open and sometimes ridiculous in speech and manner. While acting, he’s another story—a natural storm, mussing hands through his long hair, pacing, falling silent for sporadic stretches of time as he pinches his lips with his fingers and closes his eyes, frowning, frowning, frowning, until he reassembles into serenity, confidence glazing his gaze. He looks the very image of a genius and Louis often watches him from the balcony, chin rested on his forearms as his book dangles from his hand, too lost in Mr. Styles’ showman lips and celebrity curls to breathe, move, or blink, let alone read. There may be unforeseen and inexplicable complications at work between the pair but there is absolutely no doubt that, as much as the man frustrates Louis, he is a bloody gift to this earth.

And so, taking pity on the man’s startled countenance and near-terror of his own valet, Louis’ begun to respectfully avoid Mr. Styles as well, giving him space and time to focus solely on his role. They meet once in the morning—short and pleasant, Louis offering polite conversation and a few jokes as he assembles him for the stage—and once in the evening, to refresh before he leaves. Other than that, Louis finds himself hiding away, nose either in a book or cast in the direction of the stage, watching the rehearsals, watching the stage props being painted as the set is added to every single day. And it’s all very uneventful, all very boring.

“The play’s going well,” Louis remarks from his seat as Zayn flounces down beside him, rubbing his temples.

Glaring, he offers Louis a cigarette, which he takes with a nodded “Cheers,” and a wink, smirking around the stick as Zayn lights it for him.

“I’m going to die young,” Zayn murmurs before lighting his own.

“Wasn’t that your plan?” Louis questions, exhaling grey.

“Of course,” Zayn replies steadily in a hum. He pinches the bridge of his nose, cigarette hovering between two dirty fingers as he closes his eyes, eyelashes nearly taking up half his face, the Renaissance bastard. “But it was supposed to be in a timely fashion of my own accord.” He opens his eyes, flashing irate. “It wasn’t supposed to be because of some girl whose mere voice splits my skull in half.”

Shaking his head, Louis smirks around the next drag of his cigarette. “But there’s nothing better than dying for your art, Zayn. Didn’t they tell you that at playwright’s school?”

Blinking misty eyes, Zayn stares him, inhaling, exhaling smoke with bruised ease. “Touché,” he mutters but it’s with a smile and Louis considers it a success as he falls back into his book, nicotine on his tongue.

**

As the day drifts on, Louis drifts along with it, keeping to the sidelines, before inevitably ending up back in the balcony where the mice sometimes scuttle, book in his lap. With a frown that he feels in the deepest part of his abdomen, he watches as Mr. Styles takes the stage, watches as he acts, watches as he departs, looking stormy and lost in thought, only to break into a warm smile when Mr. Higgins approaches him.

Easy and charming. Mr. Styles laughing and throwing his head back prettily.

Louis frowns, resting his head on the balcony railing.

**

It’s nearing evening when Louis finds himself back in the stage hall with Niall and Zayn, who are intermittently bickering and chuckling and exchanging stares that only they can decipher.

Currently, however, Zayn is having a bit of a fit.

“Why the HELL does that moon take up half the bloody stage?!” he shrieks, gaping in horror at the blue grey moon hanging midair on the stage, suspended and gently swinging amongst the backdrop of painted chunky stars.

“You’re exaggerating,” Niall accuses flatly, but he still walks over to him, brushing a hand over his shoulders, fountain pen still tucked between his fingers. The cigarette dangles from his lips, ember bright.

“I am not,” Zayn replies hotly, standing in fury. “My actors are going to be knocked unconscious by a moon. One wrong step, Niall—“

“They’re not going to walk into the props.”

“Oh, can you predict the fuckin’ future now?” 

Niall sighs before he meets Louis’ eye, exhaustion etched in his expression as he passes a hand over it, clumsy. “Oi, Lou. Clear the room for a bit, yeah?”

A bloom of understanding befalls Louis as he promptly nods, glancing to a very thunderous looking Zayn who’s currently looming over everyone like the gargoyle that he probably was in a past life. He’s well practiced with this… _thing_ they do.

Flashing an understanding smile, Louis begins to round every one up, looking back to Niall with a thumbs-up. “No problem, mate. Good luck dealing with the prince.”

“Oi!” Zayn snarls, but Niall directs his gaze back to him with gentle force.

“Eyes on me, yeah? Just breathe, love. Take a moment.”

The last thing Louis sees as he ushers everyone out of the hall is the slump of Zayn’s shoulders as Niall’s ink-smudged hands settle on the narrow stretch of his waist.

Smiling, Louis excuses himself from the small cluster of people that have now begun to mull around the in the corridor, conversing in laughing tones as they soak up a probably-much-needed break, leaning against the dark red walls and mahogany trim, smiles warbled in the orange-tinted lights of the lamps that line either side. Occasionally, Louis enjoys hanging about them all, humoring the gossip and peddling the flippant jokes, but today he’s more set on his own company, moseying down the corridor at an unhurried pace.

The back of his mind wonders where Mr. Styles is, wonders if he should even bother meeting him in the dressing room tonight; he probably won’t require much on account of having had so little rehearsal time today (Miss Smith held most of the focus, much to Zayn’s horror, Niall’s determination, and Liam’s delight) and Louis’ services (despite them providing a little blip of light to his day with how much he rather enjoys conversing with Mr. Styles) are probably not required. He could spare the man some terror. He is, after all, a generous soul.

So it’s just as Louis is about to ascend the stairs, his mind made up, novel in tow, when he hears the click of boots against the marble floors, heavy and calm.

“Louis!”

Turning around, Louis brightens the moment he sees Mr. Higgins’ figure moving towards him; a cigar rests in his mouth, smoking languidly, and he walks with the natural confidence of money and no agenda. Louis feels himself smile at the sight of him, finding that he rather misses the man—whenever rehearsals are well under way, he becomes so busy that he has very little time for anyone, let alone Louis, and it’s nice to be in his calm presence. After all this time, he does sort of resemble a paternal comfort.

“Mr. Higgins,” Louis smiles warmly, turning promptly on his heel and ducking his head briefly in greeting. “It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise,” he smiles, eyes squinted. His skin holds a natural warmth, always lightly dusted with pinks and fuscias; he’s a bit like a Saint Nicholas but less overtly jolly. And younger. “I was hoping to have a moment alone with you, actually.”

Blinking his surprise, Louis nods immediately, face quieting into seriousness as he straightens his arms to his sides, tilting his head in inquiry. It’s rare that Mr. Higgins needs a word with him, especially with such formality. A prickle descends his spine. “Oh? What can I do for you, sir?”

Sidling up to him slowly, Mr. Higgins places one large, meaty hand on Louis’ shoulder, studying his features in calm contemplation as he plucks the cigar from his lips. “I wanted to discuss our newest asset with you—Mr. Styles.”

Ah.

Louis remains silent, only nodding in encouragement.

“How are things going? Is he a man of personality, as they say?”

Attempting an unsure smile, Louis shrugs. He doesn’t know where this is leading, where it could lead.

An irrational fear forms then; is he about to be dismissed?

“He’s very charming,” he settles for noncommittally, studying Mr. Higgins’ face as he nods, eyes roaming the hall. “Good manners.”

“Yeah?” Mr. Higgins mutters, glancing sidelong at him. He takes a drag from his cigar, blows a smoke ring. “Liam had mentioned something about you two, in passing. You were having difficulties?”

Oh god. Bloody Liam and his big bloody mouth.

Frowning, Louis shrugs again, hoping the movement will loosen some of the tension. “Just with…developing a repertoire. It’s nothing of substance, I can assure you,” he says, rushing his words as his stomach squelches. “It was entirely my fault, of course. You know how I can get, sir—overeager. Too forward. Probably asked too many question and just…” he drifts, pasting on a smile that feels clunky on his features. “But it won’t happen again, sir, I promise. I know my station.”

He can’t be dismissed, he _can’t_.

Fuck, but what if Mr. Styles issued a complaint? It was that ‘devour’ comment, wasn’t it? Or Louis’ behavior in general. Fuck, he’s ruined his entire life for some throwaway conversation—

“Has he been rude to you?” Higgins then asks, one eyebrow arched. His expression is serious now, patient as he blinks and studies Louis closely.

“No,” Louis answers instantly, brow furrowing. “No, he’s been very kind to me. Why would—“

“Because if he’s being insolent in any manner, you will tell me, won’t you?”

“Of course, sir.”

“I cannot deny that a name like his will bring incredible business for my theater, Louis. I can’t deny that his contract is rather binding as well as prolonged. However, I can assure you that I will not allow any man—famous or not—to make you uncomfortable in your own home.” He half-smiles then. “Well, so to speak. Not technically your home, is it?”

For a moment, Louis just stares. Then he finds his voice.

“I’ve more a home here than I do where I sleep,” he manages with a brittle smile, feeling a wave of emotion grip his throat as he ducks his head.

Higgins’ words sit within him, swelling up to fit his entire ribcage because, well, Louis wasn’t really expecting this turn of conversation. Sure, he knows Higgins cares for him, has done more for him than any other man, and all for no true reason other than pure human kindness. But still, knowing that Higgins has been mindful of his comfort and ease, even in the face of a superior, of one of the actors, has Louis feeling rather unexpectedly emotional, appreciation soaking his heart.

He looks up finally, clearing his throat as he smiles into the warm face that greets him. A good, good man, that Paul Higgins.

“Thank you, sir,” is all he manages to say, hoping his tone conveys everything he lacks the vocabulary for.

A simple nod is his reply.

“I promise to alert you, should he misbehave,” Louis tacks on for good measure, a bit of humor coloring his voice.

Higgins laughs, nodding as his hand slips from Louis’ shoulder. “That’s what I like to hear. Now, I best be on my way.” He smiles once more, meeting Louis’ eye with a familial significance that has Louis smiling still warmer. “You have a good day now, Louis. You’re doing well around here, working hard. Making my crew laugh—even Malik.”

Louis just chuckles, ducking his head.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, m’boy.”

“Yep, absolutely,” Louis nods earnestly. “Have a good evening, Mr. Higgins.”

“You as well, Louis.”

He watches him part, smiling and feeling a warm bubble in his throat and chest before he picks up his own pace once more, fingertips tingling. He’s so lost in thought that, for awhile, he doesn’t even notice that he’s making his way to the dressing room, one foot in front of the other.

It’s only when he’s directly outside the closed door that he realizes. And the only reason he realizes is because a small object bumps the toe of his shoe.

Startling, he unscrews his eyes away from his daze, squinting in the dim light as he kneels down and inspects the object; it’s a rectangular parcel, wrapped in neat brown paper, a blue ribbon tied around it. He blinks, turning it over in his hands as he inspects the careful wrapping, the smooth blue satin—and almost misses the small, swirly script on the back, tucked in the upper right hand corner.

_For Louis  
x_

He stares.

Wait. What? Is this really for… _him?_

Bewildered, he straightens and looks around, bizarrely hoping for someone to spring from the shadows and answer all the questions currently nibbling at his brain. But, alas, there is only silence and dust and darkness and so he returns his curious gaze back to the parcel, swiping one hand down the cover in inquiry.

He should open it, right? That’s the polite thing to do?

Hesitantly, preciously, he slips the ribbon off, tucking it into his grubby back pocket with the hole; he hopes the ribbon doesn’t manage to slip through it. Rarely does he ever receive gifts and never are they like this—so beautiful and poised. So… _special_.

Smile caught between his teeth, he begins peeling the brown paper back, careful to avoid ripping any part of it. He unfolds and unfolds, hands working quicker as the curiosity builds in his gut until—

He inhales a sharp breath, staring down at the book in his hands.

It’s emerald green, resplendent in gilt letters that reflect every particle of light around. _A Collection of Short Stories,_ it says and it’s beautiful. Small enough to fit in his back pocket, weighing nicely in his hand and… And it’s just brilliant, is what it is.

Louis swallows as he cracks the spine open, marveling at the smell of freshly printed paper and crisp corners, the letters blackest black and almost shining with new ink.

He’s never had a new book before. Especially one of this caliber.

Who would do this for him?

Again, he looks around, more desperately this time as his heart lodges in his throat, the book warm in his palms.

Was it Mr. Higgins? Liam? Hell, could it be Zayn?

Each possibility seems less likely than the last.

Still stunned, he enters the dressing room, barely even registering its emptiness, bereft of Mr. Styles or his coat. Truthfully, he can’t say he minds all that much today though, save for that faint niggling of disappointment.

Instead, he just continues to beam quietly to himself as he settles in the wooden chair by the vanity, opening the book to the table of contents, warmth spreading throughout his entire body.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I? Write? Too? Much? Did anything even happen in this chapter? Why am I like this? I keep splitting everything into 2 because I'm a hot mess. Sad. 
> 
> Anywho, the next chapter is going to probably be so silly. I'm not a fluffy bunny so we'll see what happens... ;P 
> 
> Love you all! Thank you for reading and commenting and being gorgeous :) 
> 
> mizzwilde = tumblr


	7. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of references to Oscar Wilde's "The Happy Prince" because I'm predictable garbaaaage :)

_Salvatore_ by Lana Del Rey

**

Louis’ fingers skim across the pages, cold skin lit with the sunrise as his lips mouth the words he reads steadily, eyes darting, his now-cooling tea balanced between his feet. He’s on his roof again despite his protesting bum and the shadows beneath his eyes.

He’d been reading his book all night, huddled in his bed and wrapped in blankets, using a dwindling candle to decipher the black smudge text, and he’d awoken after only a few short hours of rest, desire in his veins as he flexed stiff limbs and plucked the book up from the floor where he’d left it, already smiling, already ready to return to the little worlds he’d left behind. It’s a collection of short stories—just as the title stated—but they’re all just…delightful. Sort of wry and humorous and a bit morbid but they’re beautiful. Ornate and flourished and witty and simple yet profoundly cynical with only the barest hints of goodness. He loves them, he loves this _book_. He’s almost finished it—all three-hundred and forty-two pages—and he’s already planning to flip right back to the beginning and reread every blasted word because it just _clicks_ with him in a way. Words that make sense and ping in his chest, expressing sentiments he somehow understands despite never having heard them before.

_“’Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?’ asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. ‘The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.’”_

Louis sips from his cooling tea as his lips quirk at the words, bitter taste on his tongue, sunlight on his cheeks, cold pressed pages beneath his hand. He looks up at the sky that surrounds him, thinks he can faintly see the outline of the moon still.

He wonders if Mr. Styles would cry at the moon. He wonders if he could.

Or maybe he’d be the sensible mother.

Sighing to himself, his eyes drift back down to the book before he closes it, swiping a finger down the spine, and wonders—not for the first time in the past twelve hours—just who it was that delivered him this gift.

He continues to wonder as he dresses for the day, room lit only by shadows.

**

Due to his lack of sleep and unfinished book, Louis arrives at the theater much earlier than usual—earlier than anyone else. With cold hands, he unlocks the back door, pushes it open with his shoulder as he huffs a steamed breath. The sun’s just about fully risen, icy orange and ominous in a sky that’s etched in dark clouds. Everything’s quiet and tired and peaceful, sloping almost, and he yawns into the back of his hand as the door shuts with a bang behind him, his echoed footsteps carrying him to his usual spot in the balcony. It’s a bit tucked away from the rest of the space, lightly hidden and a bit dusty, a bit cobweb-y, but it’s silent (save for the scuttle of mice feet) and there’s just enough light from the high-up half-moon window that a milky glow is cast, providing an adequate reading atmosphere. And a general sense of solitude.

Again, he yawns as he settles on the ground, leaning against the wall where the paint’s been chipped for countless years now, Grecian scenes faded and peeled away, blending into 0ff-white plaster. Sometimes Louis wishes this balcony was used more, was kept up with in its intricate beauties because it’s still just so breathtaking, so painstakingly detailed, that he’ll often run reverent hands over its balconies and mouldings, over its faded paint and worn velvets. And sometimes he’ll close his eyes as his palms press against untouched dust and wonder if anyone else has put their palm here before as well. If his hands are touching strangers’ hands from long ago.

He can be a bit silly sometimes, though.

So he opens his eyes and removes his hands, just simply glad that this place is _his_ now and his alone. Selfishly, he’s a little pleased that it’s almost been forgotten, tucked up so high near the gilded ceilings where he can see the dust settled atop the chandeliers. It’s a comforting thought.

But anyway.

With sleepy eyes and feet he tucks beneath his bum, he cracks open his book and reads.

**

Slowly, the theater awakens.

It’s been hours and Louis’ eyes feel dusty with use, nearly crossing with how bloody much he’s read, but he’s just about finished with this glorious text, almost done (he laments the ending, admittedly) as he blinks into the lights that have now been turned on, bodies beginning to flit below.

He can hear Zayn’s voice drift upwards, slow and velveteen, then Niall’s, abrupt and thick. Liam’s down there, too. For how long they’ve all been here, who knows; Louis’ been in another world for the past few hours, swept up in his head, and he blinks at his surroundings now as he flexes his fingers, remembering that he has a body, a life, a reality here.

He gets so lost in his worlds sometimes. Gets so swept up in his mind and the characters. It’s easy, sometimes, to forget that he’s Louis Tomlinson, valet. Living in London with no money, no family, no…goals.

But saying it like that sounds so depressing. So ungrateful.

He’s happy, he is. Content and all that. There isn’t anything in his life that’s missing.

Wiping his nose on his sleeve, he kicks up off the ground and pockets the book. Mr. Styles is probably going to arrive soon—if he hasn’t already—and Louis would quite like to actually see him today. It’s been awhile since they’ve had decent conversation; he sort of misses it. True, Mr. Styles isn’t exactly the most chatty of Cathies when he’s in Louis’ company (not by a mile), but he’s still interesting and earnest and oddly sweet and humorous, his presence very different than anyone else’s at the theater, and Louis finds a strange comfort in it, a strange pull that he can’t help but halfheartedly follow.

So he picks up his pace as he trots down the stairs, thinking of brown curls and green coats with fur collars and shoes that are always polished.

**

Mr. Styles hasn’t arrived yet.

It’s only a little disappointing, really. Because, upon being met with an empty room, Louis just shrugged to himself and pulled up a chair, going back to his book seamlessly, eyes growing heavy with use.

In fact, he’s still so swept up in his book that it barely registers when a low, musical voice suddenly calls his name.

“Mr. Tomlinson?”

Louis blinks, ripping his gaze from a very enjoyable sentence about roses, and looks up into the eyes of Mr. Styles, who’s staring at him a little anxiously, line between his brows, hands gripping onto either side of his open jacket. The fur collar is lightly matted and damp, as are the man’s curls. Louis’ glazed eyes roam about him as he hums.

“Raining?” he asks, closing his book softly.

There’s a second’s pause before Mr. Styles nods, bringing a hand to smooth down his hair. “Just a little.”

“I quite like the rain…” Louis sighs with a half-smile, looking back down at his book and brushing a hand down its cover, practically petting it in reverence. His smile widens. “But that’s merely my selfishness.”

Instantly, Mr. Styles’ face smoothes into a grin.

“You like the book?” he asks, pleased as can be as he clearly spots the reference, and Louis snaps his head up to him, surprised.

“How did you—“ he begins, heart picking up a beat, but Mr. Styles rushes to continue, his expression diminishing a fraction.

“I heard mention of a present from the others,” he explains with a shrug, feigning nonchalance as he slides off his jacket, hanging it up without a second’s thought. Louis watches from his chair, too tired to protest as he tilts his head in inquiry. “Someone had said you’d gotten a book.”

“Who?” Louis presses, intrigued. “I never told anyone. And it was given anonymously. I must admit, I’m not sure who to thank…” He waits, alert, hands gripping the binding.

But a “Hm,” is all Mr. Styles offers, fussing with the hangers in a very fixed manner. “Can’t say I remember. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Louis frowns, disappointed, still making no move to get up, hands slackening on the book. “Well, regardless, it’s incredible,” he adds a moment later, watching Mr. Styles’ back. “Been reading all night.”

“Really?” Mr. Styles asks, immediately turning around. That smile’s back in place, pleased and hopeful. His suit is maroon, roses stitched into his jacket. It’s so beautiful and luxurious, Louis wants to feel the fabric in his hands; he wonders how it would fit him if he wore it. Too big in the shoulders, no doubt. The sleeves past his hands. The thought sends a tiny blip of intrigue through him, a curiosity that feels more pressing than should be logical.

“This is one of the most exquisite things I’ve ever read,” Louis confesses with a genuine smile, tired but bright as he gestures to the cover, leaning forward. “Maybe the very best. I can’t quite explain it but I… I adore it. Everything about it. I already plan to re-read it over and over,” he laughs, shaking his head at himself. He meets Mr. Styles’ pleased eyes, who’s listening to his every word. “I highly suggest giving it a look for yourself. The writing is like nothing I’ve seen. It seems to understand me.”

A warm breath of color overcomes Mr. Styles’ face. “Actually, I’ve, er”—he coughs into his fist, attempting to tame the smile that’s taking residence on his wide mouth—“I’ve read it multiple times myself. And I—yeah. Yes. I feel exactly the same about it, I must confess. It’s my favorite book, actually.”

“Yeah?” Louis asks, now intrigued himself as he stands, walking towards him. “So you understand why I’ve barely slept last night, then.” He laughs self-depreciatingly, gesturing to himself. “I must apologize for how offensive I must look. Terrible hair, bags under me eyes. Probably pale as a ghost.”

“No,” Mr. Styles protests, shaking his head as a look of concern befalls him. “No, you look lovely.”

There’s just a brief ensuing silence as Louis smiles all the more, touched, and Mr. Styles pales, looking appalled by his own words.

“Not that—“ he begins, stilted, but Louis overlaps him.

“Thank you,” he smiles earnestly, preening with exaggeration to make Mr. Styles laugh—which, thankfully, he does. Just a small chuckle, a little unsure. “I was hoping I could pull off sleep deprivation well. If nothing else, I’m glad to possess that one gift.” He smirks, unable to resist a little bit of banter in the face of one so skittish.

Thankfully, another smile pokes at Mr. Styles’ lips before he hesitantly shrugs, eyes briefly roaming the room before they return to Louis, bright, bright green. Pine needles in the sun. “I’m glad I could bring it to your attention, then. One should always be aware of one’s own gifts.”

“Oh?” Louis laughs, pleasantly surprised at their budding rapport. “So then are you aware of _your_ gift?” He smiles hard enough that he feels the wrinkles bunch at his eyes as he sets down his book before making his way towards his brush kit lying on the vanity table. Rapport or not, there’s still work to be done. And he’s been quite lazy today thus far, so.

“And what is my gift, exactly?” Mr. Styles asks but it’s with a smile that could almost be labeled as playful; he ducks his head infinitesimally when Louis approaches him, lifting his arms and jumping lightly at the first brush stroke.

Louis’ careful to avoid his curls, just barely resisting brushing them out of harm’s way with the gentle caress of his back hand. “Your gift of being the maker of worlds, so to speak,” he responds in a flourishing manner, sweeping across his back with every word. “Being the greatest actor of our time! A theater darling. Everybody’s after you, you know. We were all abuzz when we first heard talk that you were to work here.”

At this, Mr. Styles seems genuinely taken aback, craning his neck to get a good look at Louis. “You were? Because of me? Surely you had better things to do,” he mutters, but it’s not unkind.

“Hardly,” Louis snorts, finally stepping back and stowing away his materials. Mr. Styles is spotless—he hardly needs any primping. “I’m always fascinated when great names are here.” A momentary look of disappoint darkens Mr. Styles’ face then, just obvious enough that it gives Louis pause before his next words, eying the man, who quickly turns to mask his face behind the curtain of his hair, thick as it is. “But I was only too pleased—and honored—to discover that your talents greatly outweighed any petty rumors of fame,” Louis continues as he remains close, watching. “Though, I’m sure Liam would box me ears if he’d heard me describe fame as ‘petty’.” He smiles then, careful, unsure if he’s been insolent.

 _“I_ find it to be petty,” Mr. Styles responds instantly, a little harshly, and Louis blinks his surprise as he studies the profile of the man, debating whether to proceed.

Blast. He’s clearly hit a nerve.

“Er. I apologize—“

“No,” Mr. Styles interjects then, sighing very deeply as he turns a softer expression onto Louis. He looks so tired sometimes. Caught between youth and weariness. “No, I should be apologizing. I must confess I can be very jaded at times… I shouldn’t let that out on you.”

“True,” Louis agrees thoughtfully, still standing close, still staring curiously. “But you’re also human, sir. And I should like to consider myself…well. At least a friendly acquaintance of yours. So you’ve not to apologize for having a moment’s struggle. Lord knows I’ve had enough.” He shrugs easily, offering up a small smile.

It’s just a small gesture but it still seems to take Mr. Styles by surprise as he turns to him slowly, bodies now facing each other.

“You have such a kind nature…” he remarks, mostly to himself. His eyes skim over Louis, fascinated. “There aren’t many like you in this world. And I’d know—I’ve met my share of people. In all lands.” His face is serious, structured so carefully as he holds himself with that same air that always feel contained, somehow.

“Well, with all due respect sir, I could’ve told you that,” Louis jokes, hoping for a smile. “‘Course there’s not another Louis Tomlinson! Much like there isn’t another Harry Styles.”

“Oh, but I’m sure there is,” Mr. Styles says darkly, forlornly, and he’s so glum and shadowed as his gaze falls, a grumpy pout to his lips, that Louis almost laughs at the absurdity of it.

“There isn’t,” he presses, confident. “I’ve met a few actors in my time. A fair few humans. No one like you, sir.”

“You’re just saying that to be kindly, I’m sure. It’s your job to charm people like me,” he mutters, though his eyes flicker upwards, gauging Louis’ expression.

He sets unimpressed eyes upon him in return. “I think you’ll find that I’m not very good at my job,” he replies flatly. It’s enough to twitch Mr. Styles’ lips. “But I _am_ good at being honest. And you’re an odd one, sir, I’ll give you that. But you’re also very kind to me—kinder than anyone has been—and I find you very fascinating. In many regards, if you’ll allow me to say so. I’m  honored to think of you being merely in my company, let alone in my acquaintance. Er. Not that I’d ever be so bold as to assume—“

“May we be friends, perhaps?” Mr. Styles asks suddenly then, tentative and earnest as he stares inquiringly into Louis’ eyes. He’s leaned forward a bit, shoulders hunched in their natural way, his hands clenched onto the hem of his jacket. So serious but so unsure. Fascinating. “Only because I—well, I find you to be very kind as well and—and you seem to understand. Things. I have difficulty sometimes…” He doesn’t explain his words, just stops and waits, hopeful.

Louis stares. “Friends?” he repeats, incredulous and hardly daring to believe. “With _me?”_

Even more earnestly, Mr. Styles nods. “Yes. If it’s not too bold…?”

“Not at all,” Louis replies immediately, grin slow to light up his face. “I’d be very much honored to consider us friends, sir.”

“Call me Harry, please,” Mr. Styles requests gently, face still serious. It’s befuddling, the intensity of the man, interlaced with all the awkward hesitance. Louis wants nothing more than to poke his cheek and tempt a smile, diffusing some of his taught lines.

“Harry,” he corrects softly, quirking his head as he smiles fuller. “If you truly don’t mind.”

“I truly—“

_Knock, knock_

“Oi! Harry! Onstage,” comes Niall’s barking voice then, followed by the silken rumble of Zayn’s muttered neurotic ramblings that Louis can’t quite decipher.

“I can gather Miss Smith?” Liam’s voice offers next, lifted and hopeful, and, yeah, Louis definitely hears Zayn make some kind of sarcastic remark because it’s followed by Niall’s exasperated sigh and Liam’s appalled protests as they swiftly move down the corridor, not even bothering to wait for an answer.

It’s entirely amusing and Louis grins as he pulls his gaze away from the door and looks back to Mr. Styles— _Harry_ —who’s already looking at him, soft and inspecting.

Louis shakes his head, amused. “Bunch of nutters,” he remarks with a twist of the mouth.

“I quite like them,” Harry smiles back. It’s still so small, so budding and curious and a little wild in the way it flickers like candle flame. “But I really should probably listen to them and…” He gestures to the door, eyes never leaving Louis.

He nods encouragingly. “Absolutely. Don’t let me keep you.”

It’s just as Louis’ settling back in his chair, ready to continue reading, and Harry’s exiting the door, all gliding movements and quivering curls, that he pauses and turns back, eyebrows pulled together in determination as he stares at Louis silently—who raises his eyebrow in inquiry.

“Louis?” he calls, ringing like the strike of a grandfather clock.

“Yeah?”

“It was me.”

Confused, Louis’ brows pull together as he stares at him.

“The book—the gift.” He nods to the aforementioned in Louis’ hands, a flush in his neck as his expression reveals nothing. “It was me. I was the one who left it for you.”

And Louis’ just opening his mouth to respond, feeling a freight train knock into his lungs and punch out an almighty breath as he blinks in complete and utter shock (what? Actor Harry Styles left him a present, _what???)—_

But then Harry’s turning around with all the speed of lightning, sliding out the door like quicksand and closing it with a final click, whisking himself away in a storm that leaves Louis very, very caught and very, very speechless.

Well, then. There’s that.

**

All bloody morning, Louis tries to talk to Harry after his confession, the wheels in his head turning with question marks and bewildered curiosities. He just wants to ask a few questions, poke a bit at the lad’s brain because, all this time, Louis hasn’t even been sure if Harry fully enjoys his company—and yet he apparently enjoys him enough to buy him gifts. Nice gifts. Thoughtful gifts. A bloody book that Louis’ now smitten with. Harry’s favorite book.

Absolutely bewildering, everything.

Unfortunately for Louis, however, Harry seems to be avoiding exactly what Louis is seeking—confrontation. Because whenever he’s momentarily dismissed from the stage, he immediately sprints to the nearest human body (usually Miss Smith if Liam isn’t currently trying to surgically attach himself to her) and engages in robust, unbreakable conversation, steadily avoiding Louis’ eye. The prat.

Huffing, Louis glares at his figure from where he’s currently stood across stage, having sprinted himself, in hopes to actually catch the man this time. But alas—to no avail.

“Why on earth are you out of breath? My god, were you just running?” Liam asks, nonplussed as he wrinkles his nose and inspects Louis’ current state.

“Yes,” Louis nods unashamedly. “Trying to have a word with Styles.”

He snorts, rolling his eyes. “You sound like every other man in this room. You know, Sophia’s been talking about him as well? Says he’s _handsome_ and _talented._ ” He scoffs, looking as if he’d just been pelted with rotten vegetables. “Can you _imagine?_ Fancying a gentleman with such long hair?”

Well. Stranger things have happened, Louis is sure. No lady in the world is as beautiful as Harry Styles.

But Louis doesn’t say this, instead shrugging as he finally turns away from the man in question, looking at Liam with amusement. “Someone jealous?”

“Jealous? Me?” Liam snorts, but he’s clearly pouting and his cheeks are softly pink. They match his salmon pocket square and brogues. “I hardly know the feeling.”

Now, Louis knows a chance to ruffle Liam’s feathers when he sees one—he’s had countless years of practice to perfect the art—so it’s less than surprising when he snags the opportunity without a second’s thought. “Oh, excellent!” he chirps, adopting his sunniest smile and most innocent eyes. “Then you won’t be sore with me when I tell you I’ve kissed Miss Smith and asked for her hand.”

“You bloody _what?!”_ thunders Liam then, loud enough to still the room momentarily, sending heads in his direction. He flushes hot as he murmurs apologies around before he turns back and sets actual daggers into Louis, skin the color of boiled tomatoes. “Louis, how _dare_ you—“

“Relax, relax, Li, I’m only joking,” he titters, laughing joyfully behind his hand as he watches the spectrum of colors dance upon Liam’s face, recognition slow to dawn.

“Oh,” he says after a moment, relatively human again. Then he goes right back to pouting, thick eyebrows stern as ever. “Not funny,” he grits out, but he’s returning to a shade that is mostly flesh colored.

Louis smiles, flicking his side. “A little funny, you gotta admit.”

“Not even a touch funny.” But his mouth twitches none the less.

“Please stop screaming in my theater,” Zayn’s withered voice suddenly drips as he sidles up to the pair, pinching the bridge of his nose in one hand, the other grasping a cigarette in what is most definitely a calculated pose; Zayn poses constantly, claiming it’s his artist’s duty. And, to be fair, it completely works for him—his hair is slicked back beneath this trilby today, one lone, greasy strand hanging over the oily expanse of his forehead. His lips are crimson from being bitten and pursed in anger, his stubble peppers his jaw, the hollow of his throat looks dipped in gold beneath the heat of the electric lights. His white shirt’s rolled to his sharp elbows. Suspenders hang limply on his narrow thighs, in the same fashion as Louis’, yet he manages to somehow look purposely disheveled. It’s always a marvel, really. Louis’ always found him to be his own work of art.

Even when he’s glaring, like he currently is at Liam. “I have enough throbbing in my temples, thank you,” he snaps but it sounds more exhausted and drawling than vicious.

Still, it makes Liam flush again, glaring. “That better not be a dig at Sophia.”

“Who’s Sophia?” Zayn asks with feigned ignorance, but Liam just sighs grumpily, rolling his eyes.

“You know who she is,” he mutters petulantly, kicking at the ground like a downtrodden child—it almost makes Zayn smile. Almost.

“Love, I hope you’re not taunting Liam again,” Niall greets at that moment, head buried in a stack of papers as he joins the group. The brim of his cap obscures his eyes but despite this, he still manages to effortlessly pluck the cigarette from between Zayn’s fingers, bringing it to his own lips to take an indulgent inhale, tiny blonde bits of hair poking out at all ends. “You know he can’t handle it.”

“I can handle it,” Liam replies indignantly, looking a touch struck as he blinks owlishly. See, he always wants to be one of the lads, wants to be seen as an ‘equal’ in the group despite his privileged upbringing and rather oblivious nature, so he always takes a little more offense than is meant. It’s just one of those things about him that Louis secretly finds rather endearing, if he’s being honest. “I like it when Zayn’s very cruel to me!”

But that just sends all eyebrows up, doubtful. Even Niall gives him a look over his handful of papers, blue eyes looking highly entertained.

“Well,” Liam quickly amends as he becomes aware of their stares, glancing amongst them, “perhaps not when he’s _very_ cruel, per se…”

“I’m not cruel, I’m just right,” Zayn mumbles, but he still smirks at Liam, settling one fragile hand atop his shoulder in as friendly a manner as he’s capable of. “Though, you have been single handedly disassembling my production with your mad adoration for my disastrous leading lady, thanks very much. I’m having enough trouble making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear without your—“

“You promised to be on better behavior today,” Niall reminds then in a murmur, looking up from his papers to give Zayn a stern look before he winks at Louis, clearly amused.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Fine. She’s not a _disaster_. She’s just highly unfortunate.”

Liam’s eyes narrow, lips pursing. “I’m not sure that’s much better, mate.”

“Bless him, he’s trying,” Louis can’t help but laugh, pinching Zayn’s sallow cheek and enjoying the ensuing tantrum it causes.

And Liam’s just about to reply, opening his mouth with glee in his eyes, when suddenly Miss Smith herself ambles up to the group, small hands clasped before her, a white daisy tucked in the loose curls piled atop her head.

“Oh, there you are!” she sings happily, in her customary volume. Louis can’t help but notice Zayn’s instinctual wince. “Hello, everyone. Liam,” she smiles specially, beaming when Liam nods eagerly at his own name, as if agreeing with her. He practically has hearts in his eyes. “Niall, I was wondering if perhaps I could practice my lines now?” Miss Smith continues with wide, hopeful eyes. “You see, I’ve just been fitted for my costumes but now Caroline’s sent me away because she means to work in peace, lest I distract her. And I really, really don’t want to do that, should she make a mistake on my dresses, so I was wondering if you could coach me now? On improving my skill.” She beams, eager and pleased at the attention as everyone watches her; she really is very pretty with a very sweet nature. Zayn’s just a grump.

“Of course,” Niall replies easily, already gesturing to some members of the crew with hand signals that Louis’ never fully understood. “That’s an excellent idea, m’lady. Would you like to use the stage?”

“Yes, please,” she beams. “My father says I look best on a stage. Says that I have all the natural talent of the greats but that it’s the stage that truly highlights my gifts.”

“Pray tell, is your father a drunkard?” Zayn asks dryly.

Naturally, Miss Smith stares at him, taken aback. “No, of course now! Why would you ask such a thing??”

Meanwhile, Niall face palms and Liam turns red again.

“Don’t mind Zayn, m’lady,” Louis rushes immediately, donning a smile as he feels Liam’s blood pressure rise in tandem with Zayn’s delight and Niall’s exasperation. “He speaks before his brain’s caught up to his mouth—it’s a genetic condition. Now, would you like us to depart so you can practice in private? Some tea as well, perhaps? A fan?”

Luckily, this does a decent job of distracting her from the insult, making her purse her lips in thought before she smiles softly. “Actually, I should like to practice with Mr. Styles. May I? It always seems much easier with him.”

“It really does,” Zayn agrees, spinning on his heel and searching the crowd immediately. His brow scrunches after a few prolonged seconds, eyes flittering about like black glass shards. “Speaking of, where is the man?”

Niall looks up. “HARRY!” he roars without so much as blinking, volume filling the expanse of the hall.

But to no avail.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Zayn grumbles under his breath. “He’s missing again.”

“He always does that, doesn’t he? How odd,” Liam remarks, frowning.

“HARRY!” Niall calls again but curiosity is now filling Louis’ insides because Harry told him that he does this, he told him he likes to disappear. And, just as he said, he apparently hasn’t told anyone else. Just Louis.

“I’ll look for him,” he immediately offers in a voice that carries above them all. He smiles, hoping to defuse some of Niall’s frown lines. “You lot begin reviewing your scripts and I’ll keep an eye out. I’m sure he’s just in the loo.”

Fortunately, this does lessen the tension in Niall’s face as he nods gratefully, once, before returning his attention back to Miss Smith, motioning her forward. “Alright darling,” he begins, no nonsense in his tone. “Let’s start running through those lines of yours. And try to use the book as little as possible, alright?”

Louis chuckles to himself at the way Niall’s voice turns stern, his pointer finger accentuating the words, and he shares a fond eyeroll with Zayn before he slips down the aisles, a peaceful curiosity settling over him as he brainstorms the possibilities of Harry’s whereabouts. Despite their touch-and-go routine, Louis really doesn’t know the lad all that well, couldn’t even begin to brainstorm the sort of place he would go for solitude or…self-discovery, or whatever. Where should he look first?  

Maybe he should just start with the dressing room. Maybe Harry went there for a quick respite, a little bit of a breather.

It’s while Louis’ making his way there, moving swiftly through the dark mechanics behind the stage, that the fire exit to his right suddenly opens, revealing almost blinding streams of light with a dark figures standing amongst it all—tall and slim and adorned in a long jacket of rich texture.

Harry Styles.

“Oi!” Louis jumps, genuinely startled as he fumbles his steps, gaping as he watches one corner of the man’s mouth lift while shutting the door softly behind him.

With an almost impish smirk and a matching glint in eyes that just barely still hint at green through all the poor lighting, Harry lifts one lone finger to his lips. “Sh,” he utters softly but it’s with a growing smile and Louis only huffs as his skin prickles.

“Well, if it isn’t the little disappearing act,” he teases in a near-whisper, unable to resist a playful smile of his own. He slides his hands in his pockets as he watches Harry, watches how he uses long fingers to comb his hair away from his face, little stray strands clinging to his eyelashes, making him flinch in such a pretty way. His cheeks are pigmented from the cool air outside, his jacket smelling of smoke and gravel. So shadowy and grey, eyes lidded as they watch Louis curiously. His mouth so dark, his skin so soft, his hair so windswept and his stance as graceful as it is awkward in the most compelling way.

Louis coughs into his palm, realizing he’s staring. His neck feels hot.

“Just went for a brief walk,” Harry explains in his lowest timber, half-gesturing to the door behind him, but he’s still got an eye on Louis, studying him so closely it feels like his eyes are beneath Louis’ collar, digging into the softest parts of his neck.

“To get in character?” Louis asks, re-stitching his smile in place.

“To think, yeah,” Harry nods slowly, words drifting.

“So, then,” Louis remarks after a pause, feeling an odd sort of thickness in the air as they quietly watch each other in the dark, keeping their voices low as Miss Smith’s drifts in and out from the stage. “Are you Felix now? Is that who I’m speaking to?” He smiles, feeling a little bold as he takes a step closer, making a show of peering into Harry’s eyes with a smile he bites between his sharp teeth. “Hello? Felix?”

Luckily, Harry seems amused by it all, not even flinching all that much at the proximity. Instead, a smile just warms on his face as he stands with his hands in his pockets, back hunched, head held high as he remains perfectly still and just watches Louis openly, chuckling low. “Yes, this is Felix,” he replies with a small drop of joy that Louis greedily devours.

He’s getting Mr. Styles—Harry—to laugh with him. To play and make jokes. And all with surprisingly low effort.

Perhaps this friendship is quite achievable after all. Besides, Harry was the one to request it, wasn’t he?

The thought’s enough to send small electric jolts up Louis’ spine, pushing more life into his limbs as he finally leans back on his heels and laughs, tilting his head. “You don’t look like Felix,” he comments after a moment’s contemplation. “You look like Harry.”

“Is that a good or a bad thing, I wonder?”

“I should think it’s the highest compliment.”

Harry flushes a beautiful color, unable to tuck his grin away fast enough at the remark. It pleases Louis, makes him want to spew out as many niceties as he can fit into his lifespan, all for the insane and immense pleasure of watching the way it affects Harry, seemingly against his will. A man could go mad with this kind of power.

“Shall I return you to the wolves?” Louis asks then, unable to stop smiling as he watches Harry fiddle with the buttons on his jacket, a shy smile on his face. Even in the gloom there’s such a delicate shade of pink to his skin. It’s lovely. Like roses brushed across his cheeks, leaving a trail. Louis wonders if it would be very out of line to remark as much.

“Yes, I’m ready to go back. I feel better now,” he nods, face composing as he finally looks up fully. “Just had to get my head together a bit. Sometimes the lines all blur together and I lose myself in this weird…” He drifts off, trying to signal with his hands in a very indecipherable manner, slowly beginning to walk—but he makes sure to wait for Louis to match his stride and it’s… Louis smiles briefly to himself at the gesture, quick as lightning. “I feel almost buried sometimes. By my own thoughts.”

“What a horrible feeling,” Louis frowns, glancing sidelong at him. “Is it very stressful, then? To remember all those lines?”

“No, not at all!” Harry rushes, shaking his head with wide eyes. He seems so youthful now, so simple and unguarded. None of that ostentatious behavior or flash-in-the-pan charms he adopts in others’ company. “I quite love memorizing lines, actually. I sort of enjoy…quoting them at random intervals in my head. Using them to narrate my own life in some ways.” He laughs, self-conscious. “That sounds absurd, I’m sure. I promise you it makes more sense than it seems.”

“No, I think it makes perfect sense,” Louis replies with a shrug. “That’s what I enjoy about reading, you know? Remembering certain poignant lines. Spewing ‘em out later and keeping them with you. Sometimes you’ll be in a certain situation and you’ll be a bit speechless almost? You know?” Harry nods, now watching him with light in his eyes, a smile barely hidden. “And suddenly this borrowed line will just pop into your head and it just clicks into place with you. Sometimes you need someone else to fill in your blanks, I reckon.”  He shifts his smile over to Harry then, finding him still staring.

“’Sometimes you need someone else to fill in your blanks’,” Harry repeats softly to himself, eyes a little far away. “I love that. Yes. That’s…. That’s exactly what it is. You have such a way with words, Louis.”

“So do you, Harry.” He smiles, feels bold enough to flash a wink.

Harry grins wider. “Are you sure you have no interest in acting? We’re quite similar, you and I. And the way you speak of worlds… It’s not very different from acting them out. Some would say it’s even better.”

There’s a moment’s silence as Louis considers his next words, gaze falling. He doesn’t like to speak of such things, doesn’t like to wish for anything out of his league.

There’s just no point.

“I’m very happy as I am,” he says simply, but it lacks conviction and he can’t meet Harry’s eye.

Luckily, the man drops it and they continue their meandering pace to the stage, silent and side by side.

“Well, good luck,” Louis smiles eventually as they near the curtain. He pauses, looking Harry square in the eye. “May you enchant them all, Happy Prince,” he teases, hoping he’ll get the reference.

“Thank you, little Swallow,” Harry replies back immediately, clearly pleased, and something stirs in his eyes, something a little more confident filling his posture. “Will you stay with me one night longer?” He grins as he quotes, continuing with the theme, but there’s a tone in the words, something just barely beneath the surface that warms the air between them, softening everything to the texture of butter.

Inexplicably, Louis feels his heart in his wrists as he beams, laughing delightedly. “I will stay with you one night longer,” he quotes back, enjoying the way Harry excites at the words, almost childlike. “Now, away!” he hisses, playfully giving him a gentle shove onto the stage as he chuckles and disappears out of sight.

All he hears as he laughs beneath his breath, slipping past the ropes and curtains and dusty stray chests, is a low-toned “Hey!” and he laughs all the harder, unable to tamp down his smile.

**

For the next few hours, Louis watches Harry perform from his spot in the balcony, finished book at his side.

It’s…not quite right, though.

Harry is visibly struggling with some of the scenes, a deep line forming on his brow, and the more and more Niall tries to coach him, the more frustrated he becomes; there’s a surly attitude about him, tense and cross and tired. Louis frowns as he watches, noting the genuine confusion in Zayn’s expression as he mutters with Niall in low tones, eyes flickering to Harry onstage—who paces back and forth, steam practically pouring from him.

“Oi! Harry!” Niall calls suddenly, Zayn suctioned to his side.

Harry stills, dark eyes zeroing in on him.

“How’s about a break? We’ll meet back here in half an hour, yeah?”

At this, Harry seems personally offended, his posture stiffening even more, fists clenching, but he nods curtly all the same before the storms off the stage, in the direction of his dressing room.

Unable to stop himself, Louis hops up from the floor, sliding his book away, and runs down the stairs, skipping step after step, as he makes to catch Harry. Fortunately, he does, finding the man just pushing the door to the dressing room open, lips pressed in a thin line, before he makes note of Louis, startling slightly.

“Louis,” he greets gruffly but there’s little expression in his face or tone. The frown still remains prominent, his shoulders bowed.

Louis frowns all the more, stuffing his hands into his pockets to resist reaching out, smoothing out his brow. Sadness doesn’t fit Harry Styles.

“Can I show you something?” he asks, apropos of nothing.

Harry blinks. “Pardon?”

Faintly, Louis smiles. “Can I show you something?” he repeats calmly, looking Harry in the eye.

There’s a moment of confused indecision as Harry just stares at him, clearly at a loss, before he finally nods slowly, hand falling from the door. “Alright,” he says softly, just like that, and follows Louis.

Something tense sits in Louis’ stomach, something sad and itching about the way he can feel Harry’s frustrations, the way he’s clearly beating himself up for his performance, and it’s bothering Louis. Bothering him enough to scramble for something to help—anything—and he’s not even truly thinking when he climbs the stairs to the highest part of the balcony, feeling more than hearing Harry’s steps behind him.

Silently, he slopes in the shaded, dusty aisles, leading Harry over to his corner—where the plaster’s chipped and the paint’s fading and the ropes hang, unused. The lamps are unlight, the window is dull. But it’s soft and quiet and nobody comes here, nobody, and it’s got an incredible view over the stage and the audience so Louis just turns around, half-smiling as he ducks his head, feeling just a bit silly suddenly. Not exactly the most exciting place, after all.

Harry’s staring at him, blank. His hands lay at his sides, limp, his eyes tired. The parentheses around his mouth are deep, like cracked stone.

“When I like to be alone or—well, when I like to watch things, even, I’ll come up here,” Louis begins, soft and little unsure. “Nobody comes up here much anymore. Not ever, really. Since it’s in such disrepair, they don’t really use it for seating anymore”—he gestures to the walls, the faded murals—“and Mr. Higgins has only briefly talked of restoring it but he has no immediate plans.” He’s rambling, dammit. “So it’s essentially just my spot, really. Nobody comes here,” he repeats, biting his lip and averting his gaze the longer Harry stares at him with that same intense manner, unmoving. “I thought maybe you’d like to know about it, in case you ever wanted to just…be alone. Or watch things without needing to talk. Or whathaveyou. It’s nothing big, of course. Just an option. If you should ever need it.”

Still, Harry stares, eyes finally ripping away from Louis to glide over their surroundings.

“I know it’s a bit shabby,” Louis rushes to continue. “Much less posh than what you’re used to. But it does help me to clear my head sometimes. It’s nice to just watch the rehearsals from up here… Sometimes read a book.” He thumps the outline of it in his back pocket. “And it’s sort of nice. Because I’m kind of the same as you—I like it when nobody knows where I am, too. At least, once in awhile. Too long by myself and I go a bit mad.” He smiles, small.

But Harry still isn’t looking at him, just taking it all in, before he slowly makes his way to the balcony, settling hands on the chipped railing and gazing down, expressionless. Tentatively, Louis walks up beside him, rests his hands near his.

“You can see everything from here,” Harry mumbles, quiet. His hair hangs over his face, his lips full as they form the words. Quiet, sad, almost.

“Yeah,” Louis whispers back for some reason, just staring at Harry’s profile. Oddly, he feels nervous, unsure, the longer Harry remains impassive.

But at long last, the latter looks over and meets his eye, something very slight spreading over his features and bathing him in a relieved calm as he exhales a ghostly sound.

“Thank you,” he says so quietly that Louis wonders if it’s just the distant sound of pigeon’s wings.

Yet Louis still nods, eyes trying to read words from his lips. “You’re welcome,” he says back, just as quietly, and watches.

There’s a few more minutes of silence as Harry returns his gaze to the seats below, watching Niall and Zayn converse as they sit side by side, actors and crew milling about as they slowly disperse, taking their respective breaks. Caroline and Louise escort Miss Smith away, laughing together, as Edward follows in their wake, sipping a cup of tea and looking half-asleep. One lone boy sweeps the stage, cap askew, before he scuttles off.

Then it’s just Zayn and Niall, sharing cigarettes and passing papers back and forth, their conversation a low, musical murmur. Louis smiles as he settles down, leaning his head upon the cradle of his arms resting on the balcony. He enjoys watching them, likes how easy it is between them. There is , of course, no doubt that their love for each other is immense. But it’s rarely displayed for others to witness and whenever it is—even if it’s just in the easy manner with which Zayn leans his full body into Niall, the way Niall comfortably rests one arm over his thin shoulders and gently glides fingers over his arm, scribbling notes with his other hand—it’s still so lovely that Louis can hardly ever look away. Something sweet pulls in his chest, something a bit longing and inquisitive.

He starts when Harry moves beside him, resting his own head on his arms in the same fashion as Louis. He looks tired still, weary, but less anxious, less furious with himself. Calmer.

“I’m a mess today,” he mumbles suddenly, eyes still watching the pair below. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Some days this is all so easy—natural as breathing—and sometimes…” He drifts off, frowning deep. Louis turns his head to watch him, cheek warm and pressed into his arm. “I just can’t do it. The words won’t come.” Helpless, he turns to Louis, searching his face. “I don’t know how to fix it. I just keep thinking, ‘How would this sound if I was this man, how would I feel?’ but it all feels _too much_. I just can’t form the words, there’s _too much_ in them and I’m trying to remember what he is, what he’s been through, what it’s like—“

“You’re thinking too much,” Louis shrugs simply, still watching him.

Harry falls silent, lifting his head as his eyebrows pull together. “No,” he negates instantly, sour. “I think all the time. That’s how you achieve the role.”

Undeterred, Louis shrugs calmly. “Alright. But it sounds to me like you’re beating the character to death, is all.”

And now Harry looks positively aghast. “Pardon me?” he splutters, eyes wide.

Sighing, Louis resettles his head, gathering words before he begins speaking, soft and mumbled, sentences carrying in the space between them. “You’re analyzing this character to death, trying to squeeze all the pulp out of him to gather for yourself and it’s just… There’s nothing left now.” He shrugs, resisting a half-smile as Harry glares at him, looking every bit the wounded kitten. “Harry. Look. You have such a natural way with fitting into a scene that I think you should just try clearing your mind of all that rubbish and just…read the lines. Just like that. Just read them. See how they work at face value, you know? How they fit in _your_ mouth. And then go from there.” Again, Louis shrugs, turning back to watch as Niall lights Zayn’s cigarette. “But that’s just my very inexperienced opinion.”

Silence follows, long enough that Louis wonders if Harry’s actually mad at him, if perhaps he’s truly overstepped his station this time, but when he turns to look at him, he only finds Harry lost in thought, chin hooked on his arm as he stares sightlessly downwards, hair spilling from the crown of his head like lava. Louis finds himself wanting to tug a strand of it so he curls his fingers inward and breaks his stare.

Then Harry nods, soft. “Yeah. Alright, yeah. I’ll try that.” He glances at Louis, a touch embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’m not always good at listening to advice about this stuff. It’s my only real… _thing_ , sort of. The only thing I’m good at, can trust myself to do. So I have trouble admitting that I need help with it sometimes. Well. All the time.” He pauses, frowning. “If that makes sense.”

“It does,” Louis replies, unable to hide his smile. “You just get very stroppy, is all.”

“I do not!” Harry huffs, surprised, but he laughs when he sees the twinkle in Louis’ eye, amused. “I just think that I probably would have discovered the solution on my own, thank you.”

Louis snorts. “Sure, you would. That’s why you were crying into your hair up here.”

“Oi!” Harry laughs, genuinely this time, as he sits up and delicately smacks Louis on his arm, gentle as a breeze. It’s cute though and Louis beams, staring at him unabashedly as Harry’s smile glows, everything in his body easy and light—a sharp contrast from his previous darkness. “I was not crying.”

“Debatable.”

“’Though my heart is made of lead, I cannot choose but weep’,” Harry then quotes and Louis smiles all the more, overjoyed.

“I have it with me right now,” he says, gesturing to the book in his pocket. “Finished it earlier, much to my honest regret. Now I’ll just have to read it aloud to you next time when you’re sad and trying not to listen to my incredible advice, to cheer us both up. That’ll surely get your mind off things—listening to my musical voice. Some say it’s akin to angels.” He grins obnoxiously as Harry rolls his eyes, grins even moreso when he flushes prettily.

“Humble,” he snorts in a low tone, but it’s with a chortle and (dare he say?) fondness. “But, honestly, yes. I should like that,” he nods, settling back down before falling into peaceful silence once more.

It’s then that a sudden thought occurs to Louis, making his smile fade as he peers at Harry carefully.

“Hey,” he begins, slow, waiting for Harry to look at him and trying to keep his tone light. “You know, just because I showed you this spot, it doesn’t mean I need to be here, you know? I don’t want to bother you—since you said you prefer to be alone. I can leave, no problem, sir—“

“No, please don’t,” Harry protests, looking genuinely worried that he will as he sits up again, hair tumbling to his shoulders. “I don’t mind when you’re with me. It’s sort of like being alone.”

“Oh, thanks. I sound like truly excellent company,” Louis replies dryly despite feeling secretly pleased, very pleased indeed, and Harry laughs again, surprised. Always surprised.

“Hush. You know what I mean,” he chides warmly, lights in his eyes. “Being with you is like being alone but…nicer,” he amends nevertheless, smile puffing his cheeks as he looks away.

“Nah, I get it,” Louis grins, body tingling. It’s nice. “I feel the same.”

Both of their smiles widen.

“Aw,” Louis remarks then, unthinking, just as he witnesses Zayn press his forehead against the side of Niall’s face. “Look how sweet.” He smiles as he nods to the pair, which Harry’s eyes follow before they widen like saucers when Niall ducks in for a flash of a kiss—something Louis has seen countless times during private moments like these but that, no doubt, Harry has probably never, ever seen before.

Something fearful suddenly coils in the pit of Louis’ stomach as his smile falls, watching Harry watch them with a sudden newfound sense of terror. He’s usually not so careless.

“Er—“ he begins, unsure of how to backtrack, what to say, because he might’ve just fucked them all over, might’ve just truly—

“Is this commonplace?” Harry asks quietly, almost in wonder, as his eyes remain glued to the pair.

Louis swallows as he considers his options. Harry doesn’t appear hostile or horrified or even fearful, really. Just more…curious? Intrigued? Fascinated? Something lies in his eyes, something strong and indecipherable, and Louis carefully watches it as he nods slowly, still feeling tense.

“It is,” he says slowly, unsure. “It’s not spoken of, of course—“

“Of course,” Harry rushes. He swallows, continuing to stare.

“But there is nothing wrong in it,” Louis dares to continue quietly, still watching Harry closely. “They truly are fond of one another. They aren’t hurting anyone. It’s just between us at the theater. Usually—usually the actors don’t know. So please don’t—“

“I won’t,” Harry says immediately, earnest and almost wild as he watches them, seeming not to breathe.

Louis relaxes infinitesimally. “Alright. Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, of course,” he dismisses, soft. Lost sounding. Drifting.

Brows pulling together, Louis watches him, daring to reach out a hand to settle on Harry’s shoulder. He jumps, turning to Louis with wide eyes.

“Are you alright, Harry?” he asks, soft. “Does this bother you?”

But Harry’s already shaking his head firmly, looking helpless somehow. “No, no it doesn’t,” he says and he sounds so pained that Louis retracts his hand, unsure and inexplicably nervous. “It truly doesn’t. It’s…” He drifts, looking back down to the pair and swallowing. “It makes sense. To me.”

And Louis doesn’t quite understand what’s going on, doesn’t understand the wideness of Harry’s eyes or the fluttering of his breath, so he remains quiet, feeling like he’s broken their peaceful composure.

“I must go,” Harry suddenly says, standing up without warning. He won’t meet Louis’ eye.

He tries to fight the disappointment surging in him, merely nodding as he remains seated, staring at Harry’s shoes. “Of course. Shall I—“

But before he can continue, Harry’s already gone, leaving Louis mid-word and utterly confused.

**

When Harry next takes the stage, it’s with a newfound sense of calm that already has Louis relaxing in his spot, relief easing his shoulders.

So. It appears Harry’s actually taken his advice, then.

Louis smiles to himself, oddly touched despite the odd way they’d left things.

And he smiles even moreso when it’s clear that whatever had been clouding Harry’s mind has now cleared, his lines being delivered with the same ease as is usually custom. Both Niall and Zayn look pleased, the other actors look impressed, Liam cheers happily, and Miss Smith applauds with enthusiasm; all in all, it’s a successful rehearsal after a not-so-successful morning.

And when Harry beams, looking confident and tall as he lifts his arms in grand celebration before lighting the first cigar that’s offered to him, it may or may not be Louis’ imagination that the man’s eyes search the balcony, a more private, less showy smile briefly on display—one meant for only him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting more romantic in here ;) 
> 
> Thank you for reading, thank you for your patience during this wilde ride. BUY PERFECT BECAUSE IT COMES OUT TOMORROW (OCTOBER 16)--WHICH IS ALSO OSCAR WILDE'S BIRTHDAY! What a day. 
> 
> Love you all!


	8. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis' getting to know Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry recites "Two Loves" by Lord Alfred Douglas. :)

_Perfect (Stripped)_ by One Direction

***

As time goes by, things become a little less… _odd_ between Louis and Harry Styles. (Well. Mostly.)

Ever since that day on the balcony, it seems as if a barrier of some sort’s been broken between them and, while Harry is still the slightly unpredictable, sometimes-shy, sometimes-witty, sometimes-frustrated man of whispered glory, he’s most definitely more relaxed around Louis now—or so it seems, at least.

Regardless, it puts an extra bounce in Louis’ step when he walks to work every morning, autumnal wind in his hair, blistering his warm flesh. It makes him smile as he listens to Liam’s Oxford—polished love poems that he writes about Sophia almost daily now, his trousers extra bright, hair extra slicked. It makes Louis hum a patient sigh whenever Zayn’s crowding in on his personal space and borderline-hysterically asking Louis if “the set’s balcony really _is_ disproportionately tiny in comparison to my actors? Are they taller than the goddamn balcony, Louis?!” It makes him laugh more at Niall’s withered exasperation and frustrated Irish groans as he cards tired, reddened hands through his wild blonde hair; it makes him love his job more as he greets the crew with a trill every morning, it makes him feel excited to button his trousers and slap on his braces when he dresses in the wee hours in the darkness of his humble flat.

Because, in Harry, Louis has found an unexpected friend. A proper friend, a different kind of friend than Liam—one who makes him laugh until butterflies fall out of his mouth, one who makes him smile with a warmth that spreads across the expanse of his face, his body, and one who makes his already content life seem that much _more_. Somehow.

And it’s not anything enormous, really. There’s no _drastic_ change, or anything. Louis’ still Louis Tomlinson and he still works at the Savoy and he still looks up to Mr. Higgins and Liam is still his best mate and the world isn’t painted differently, the sun doesn’t shine more, there isn’t more money in his pockets, no silk lining his jackets.

It’s just… Well. It’s just small things that are different.

Just a bunch of small, insignificant things that pile up to something large enough to make it feel like Louis’ life has just…improved.

Like when he forgets Harry’s tea (a habitual event) and his smile slides off his face the minute he realizes it, the man before him raising his brow in question, draped in dark and amber where he stands.

“Blast. I forgot the tea again,” Louis blurts, shoulders wilting as he lowers his arms in defeat—and, consequently, lowering Harry’s prized coat to the floor, where the hem collects a few stray dust bunnies and bits of dried mud.

Harry looks down at the coat with only slight horror before glancing back up to Louis’ eyes, curls glossed and brown, almost glowing mahogany beneath the gas lamps lining the dark walls around them. Candles are lit on the vanity, Harry’s spare clothing and jackets hung up and piled around. Boots lined on the floor. Monogrammed handkerchiefs left behind on the settee next to a small stack of books and a stray fountain pen.

“I’m beginning to question if I’ll ever taste tea again,” Harry deadpans but his lips are pulling, they’re quivering at the corners slightly, and Louis’ just about to open his mouth in protest but then Harry’s collecting his jacket from Louis’ hands, continuing as his mouth finally breaks with his suppressed smile, eyes catching the lights. “I’m also questioning the lifespan of my jacket, the longer it’s in your care. I’m afraid it’s spent more time on the floor than even Zayn has—and we all know how prone he is to throwing his body to the ground in the name of his craft. A true artist.” He’s fully grinning now as he walks over to the wardrobe, calmly hanging up his coat himself, and Louis can only blink as he watches, arms folding over his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, disappointed in himself despite Harry’s easy nature. His eyes fall to the ground, sticking in the dents and nicks on the black-brown floorboards. “To be completely honest, sometimes I don’t even know how I still have this job…” He glances up, nibbling on the inside of his lip. “I used to be proper good at it, you know.”

“I have no doubt of that,” Harry replies without pause, shooting him a grand smile over his shoulder. It accentuates the lines on his face, the dent in his cheek, the shadows his eyelashes cast. “You still are.”

Louis snorts, arms loosening. “Hardly. Not once have I ever pleased you. Forgetting your tea, always running late, talking too much, washing the floor with your coat, blowing me nose in your spare trousers that one time…”

For a moment, Harry’s smile stills, eyes widening a fraction. “Wait. You _what?”_

But then Louis gleams out a grin, all mischief and glittery eyes, and he utters an, “Only joking,” with his teeth exposed like a wolf and Harry just omits a surprised huff of laughter, shaking his head.

“Well. Still wouldn’t make you bad at your profession,” he continues lightly as he picks up his script and flips it open, flicking through the pages absently. “Besides, who am I to judge the fine art of trouser-nose-blowing? I’m sure it’s all the rage in America.”

And that in turn makes Louis laugh, surprised and delighted as his arms fall to his sides, open, exposed, and he sidles up to Harry—who smiles into his chest, eyes still on the script—peering over his shoulder at the booklet in his hands.

“Memorizing?” he asks mildly, finding himself staring at Harry’s profile with a reverence he feels in every part of his body. It feels like awe and nobody, _nobody_ , looks like Harry Styles does, he is sure.

Slowly, Harry drags his gaze over to Louis, turning his head as a stray twist of hair tickles Louis’ neck. A lazy smile lies on his lips, eyes lidded, a little smug. “That’s a silly thing to ask, Louis. Surely, you know better? I already memorized everything on the first day. I’m merely looking for dust motes right now.”

“Dust motes?” Louis questions doubtfully, unable to step away despite their close proximity, despite Harry’s hair brushing his skin, his perfume filling his nostrils. “You’re looking for dust motes in the pages of your _script?”_

“Well, it’s not as if anything in this place is being cleaned, is it?” he remarks, but he looks so smug, so impish and young and different and on the verge of self-satisfied laughter, that Louis can’t help it—he plucks the booklet out of Harry’s hands and (lightly, to be fair) bops him over the head with it before rolling his eyes and walking away, fighting a smile the entire time.

“Traitorous Little Swallow!” Harry crows, louder than he needs to, given the close confines of the dressing room, but it sounds nice and it sounds like scratched velvet and Louis laughs, laughs, laughs while Harry grins crookedly, seeming proud of himself as his hands press tightly into the lapels of his jacket, eyes glued to Louis like they’ll never come unstuck.

And it’s just that, all of _that_ , that makes Louis’ life seem a little…better. Even if he does do foolish things as well—like, for instance, spending countless hours staying late at the theater after asking Caroline if she’ll teach him to sew.

Her eyebrows all but reached the rafters at the question. “Why on earth…?” she began, taken aback.

And Louis did _not_ mention the fact that, earlier in the day, he’d seen Harry frown, a deep crease between his brows, as he fiddled with a dangerously loose button on his beloved green coat. It was threatening to fall, hanging by only one little strand of weakened thread, and he’d looked so forlorn as he pressed his fingers to it, inspecting it glumly without uttering a peep about it.

So, naturally, Louis took it upon himself to fix it.

Rather than relaying this information to Caroline, he smiled his best instead and shrugged, carefree as he studied his nails. “Thought it would be useful, given that I’m a valet, ‘n all. Part of the job. Required usually, innit.”

She hadn’t looked convinced. “You usually send anything that needs mending to me. Never wanted to stitch it up yourself before.”

Louis only sighed patiently, hands falling to his sides. “But that’s going to be a bit trying for you, yeah?” he pressed, shuffling from foot to foot. “With the play coming along and everybody needing their costumes… I figured I could lighten your load a bit, so to speak.” He beamed, hopeful.

Her eyes narrowed further. “And why now?” she demanded after a pause.

Again, Louis shrugged. “Why not?”

After a rather long stretch of suspicious eying, she finally sighed, relenting as she threw up tired, dry hands, the sleeves of her gown pushed to her elbows. “Alright, alright,” she nodded, gesturing him forward. “C’mon then. It’s pretty simple, given the sort of mending you’ll have to deal with—I doubt you’ll run into anything complicated. But if you do, just come on over to me and I’ll teach you whatever you need, yeah?”

Grinning, Louis pressed a kiss to her cheek, resisting the very real and disturbing desire to twirl on the spot in celebration. Harry will be so pleased when he finds his button sewed tomorrow!

Excited, he made a show of sitting beside her, attentive. The perfect portrait of an ideal student. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied seriously as she laughed with a roll of her eyes, a small flush dabbing her cheeks, before she procured needle, thread, and a spare bit of fabric.

And so Louis learned to sew.

Sort of.

“What—Louis, are you… _sewing?”_ Harry asks incredulously the next day, hair twisted and tangled as he stands in the doorway to the dressing room, hand still on the door. His eyebrows climb and his lips are red, still moist from wine or scotch or whiskey—whatever he slings back while he’s bumping shoulders with Zayn and Niall off set and suffering from a lack of inspiration.

Frowning, Louis looks up, too many needles tucked in his mouth, too many loose threads stuck to his clothes, Harry’s jacket lying in his lap. His fingers are speckled with pinpricks, dabs of blood here and there.

But he’s trying, alright?

For a moment, Louis doesn’t know what to say, just feeling his cheeks warm the longer Harry stares at him, half in costume (Caroline insists the actors and actresses wear their pieces as they’re assembled, for fitting purposes), his ruffled shirt untucked and billowing over the exposed column of his throat, the small exposure of chest. Ruffles at his hands, sleeves too long; Caroline will tailor them tonight. He’s wearing purple velvet trousers, embroidered with delicate gold thread. He looks like the Prince he’s playing. Eyes glassy. Lips burgundy. Pale flush of liquor on his cheeks. He has such beautiful eyelashes.

“I saw that your button was coming undone,” Louis explains after a moment, gesturing to the mostly, sort of, mended fabric between his hands. Just a few more bits of thread should tighten it, he’s sure. Then nothing will loosen it again.

For a moment, Harry looks so surprised that Louis almost wants to dump the coat on the floor and forget the whole thing, suddenly feeling very foolish indeed (even if this is his job…).

But then Harry closes the door with a soft click and he steps into the room, walking until he pulls up a chair beside Louis, something warm in his expression as he peers curiously at his handiwork before his eyes dig into him, an intensity spilling out of his irises.

“Thank you,” he says, so earnestly and low and somewhat strangled that it almost seems unfair, it seems offensive, and it shouldn’t—should _not_ —make Louis fumble his needles and exhale all the oxygen out of his body like it does. But alas.

“You’re welcome,” Louis tries to say casually, but he’s still staring at Harry staring at him, absorbing the intensity of his eyes that most definitely match the fabric in his hands. “Just doing my job.”

Harry’s gaze breaks as he nods to himself, eyebrows forming a line. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

Louis nods helplessly, unsure of how to act. It feels like syrup’s filling the room.

But then Harry looks up again, eyes clear again, expression calm. “Teach me?”

“What?” Louis questions, aghast. _“Teach_ you?”

“Yes,” Harry nods simply, as if this is customary, as if this is allowed. “If you would like to. Please.”

“But this is far below your—“

Harry waves him off, taking the coat out of his very hands and depositing it in his own lap, plucking up one of the many needles lying about. “I wish to learn,” is all he says, stubbornly, and he seems determined and beautiful and this is just so bizarre that Louis can only nod dumbly, a stupid smile forming on his face.

“Alright,” he says quietly, sending a silent blessing to Caroline. “I will teach you.”

Smiling to himself, Harry collects some thread in his large hands. “Thank you, my Little Swallow,” he mumbles, so quietly it falls to the floor. But Louis catches it and Louis hears it and his skin warms as he watches Harry concentrate on the task, watches the lights fall on his pores and his eyelashes and the sporadic, soft hairs that line his jaw and upper lip.

He really likes Harry Styles, is all. He admires his work and the way he paces on the stage, gripping at lines with frantic hands. He like how he laughs a little manically when Louis is particularly funny, throwing his head back and holding his cigarette like it’s made of fine china. He likes how he walks in a sloping stroll, somewhere between a swagger and a child learning their first steps. He likes how, despite this, he appears graceful. He likes his voice and he likes when he’ll sing under his breath when he’s tired and sleepy, letting Louis brush him down, letting Louis button his cufflinks and straighten his collar. He likes when Harry blinks open heavy eyes after Louis chuckles, singing along just as quietly, and he likes when Harry watches him with this _look_. This look he only gets around Louis. When his mouth lifts lazily and his eyes are soft and slitted, hair framing his face, eyelashes long, and he watches Louis, as if daring him to look up, and Louis’ hands tremble the smallest bit as he sorts through the ruffles on his costume, straightening, tidying, trying not to let his pulse thump out of his skin because of the way Harry looks at him during moments like these. It’s when he’s tired and unguarded and it’s just them.

Louis’ life just seems better.

**

“Oh. Can’t we have it a bit higher?”

A frown creases Miss Smith’s delicate features when she glances up at Caroline through the mirror, touching light fingers to her bosom; the neckline of her crimson gown is rather low, probably lower than she’s typically accustomed to, but this is theater—modesty isn’t its strong suit.

Louis smirks behind his apple as he takes an enormous bite, the crunch loud in the pleasantly-lit fitting room, where Caroline and Louise can always be found lurking, bumping elbows as one stitches up frocks while the other powders her face, swirling brushes in vats of makeup. Louis always likes to hang about here mid-production—that’s when everything inside these walls becomes fast-paced and energetic, always filled with chatter and gossip as the actors and actresses get relentlessly fitted for their costumes, the room adorned in chaos. Tables filled with piles of mismatched fabrics, scissors lying here and there, pin cushions on every surface, stray bits of thread always swirled on the ground in little designs that Louis likes to trace with his eyes. The long-enduring hours usually yield a fair amount of laughter and decent conversation as well, giving Louis enough entertainment to last him the week.

Besides, he likes Caroline and Louise. Even if it’s probably entirely inappropriate for him to be there as often he is, especially during the fittings. But they always tease him, brush it all aside saying, “Ahhh, Louis’ just one of the ladies, s’alright,” and it’s a bit of an on-going joke. Louis doesn’t mind, though; no shame in being friends with women.

“Course we can’t, dear,” Caroline replies then, easily as anything as she glances up at Miss Smith with a smile, before marking the fabric and humming measurements to herself, face pinching in concentration.

“As if this one’d let you get away with anything short of scandalous,” Louis chuckles, gesturing to Caroline as he flashes a wink to Miss Smith. “But don’t you worry, m’dear. I’ll defend your honor.”

Miss Smith blushes, giggling, her frown instantly dissipating; she has a bit of a soft spot for Louis, he’s realized. It’s sweet.

“I don’t know why you’d want to, anyway,” Louise adds from across the room, her thin eyebrow raised, red lips tugged into a half-smile. “Suspect you’d _want_ to show a bit of skin. Have Mr. Styles falling over you and tripping on his lines.”

At that, Miss Smith blushes crimson, a fluttery laugh escaping her while Caroline snorts, amused.

Louis’ smile fades, eyes zeroing in on his apple. He takes another bite.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s not interested in me…” Miss Smith mutters but she’s beginning to preen a bit, something hopeful in the lift of her chin as she assesses herself in the full-length mirror, smoothing petite hands over her bust and waist. Calculating.

She’s very beautiful, Louis notes with something surprisingly sour. Harry probably _is_ interested.

He rips his gaze away, trying not to frown as he swallows, something leaden plonking into his stomach.

“He’s been with every leading lady,” Louise tuts mischievously, sending Caroline a wink, who laughs and shakes her head as she pins something to the back of Miss Smith’s dress. “Quite the charmer.”

“He is very charming,” Miss Smith nods, a smile alighting her cheeks.

“Very handsome, too,” Louise adds.

“Oh, hush, you, you’re causing trouble,” Caroline scolds, but she’s biting back an amused smile.

Louis, however, is not. “Have you hens finished with your irrelevant gossip yet?” he asks, attitude rich in his voice as he tosses what’s left of his apple into the bin. He quirks a cool eyebrow before returning his gaze back to the women before him, finding them all staring at him. “What?” he challenges, chest hot.

“Well, well. Tetchy, aren’t we,” Louise sing-songs while Caroline eyes him rather suspiciously. But Miss Smith looks almost chastised, lips sealed shut as she stares at him with wide eyes.

He only feels a little guilty.

But then the door opens suddenly and he’s sufficiently distracted, looking up to find a smiling Liam—who promptly turns tomato-red before slamming the door closed again with a squeak, retreating to the sanctity of the corridor.

“Oh!” Miss Smith squeals, rushing to cover herself up (why, Louis isn’t sure; she fully clothed, after all, not in her undergarments, else Louis definitely wouldn’t be in here) before turning a similar color, looking to Caroline in fear.

Caroline, of course, merely rolls her eyes. “Liam, you prat,” she calls, shaking her head as she gathers material, stepping over a small pile of rich green satin, piled in a mound on the floor. “Come on in, there’s nought to be scared of. Our leading lady’s dressed, your gentlemanly eyes shant be burned.”

“Oh! Oh no, I’m quite fine from here, thank you!” his muffled voice chirps from behind the door.

But Louis hears the strain in it and he can’t help but laugh, scooting off his perch atop the vanity and making his way to the door. “Sorry, ladies,” he apologizes with subsiding chuckles, shaking his head fondly. “I’ll go tend to our young’un.”

“I’m not a young’un!” Liam’s voice protests before he pauses. “Also, er. Hello, Sophia!”

Louis nearly facepalms; Caroline actually does. Louise just snickers as she fixes her hair in the mirror.

“Hello, Liam!” Sophia calls back, beaming as she bounces on her heels. She clutches her hands together, eyes bright. “I hope you are well?”

“Yes, very well, thank you! And you?” Louis can practically see Liam nodding his head like an eager hound with each word, pressing his hands against the door, mouth to the crack.

“Very well!” she shouts back and, really, this is all entirely absurd.

“Right, well that was a heartwarmingly intimate conversation and all, but I best whisk young Liam away, lest he gets a splinter in his mouth. Farewell, my beauties!” Louis calls in a song, ignoring Liam’s protesting “Hey!” as he exits the room. 

In the corridor, Liam looks suspiciously casual, leaning against the opposite wall and studying the ceiling with forced concentration. He’s holding a cup of tea and wearing a cream suit and it looks as ridiculous as it should.

Louis eyes him, shutting the door softly behind him. “You really were pressed up against the door, weren’t you.” It’s not a question.

“No,” Liam replies hotly as he pushes off the wall and smoothes back his hair, then promptly changes the subject after taking a pert sip of tea. “However, I _was_ just talking to Zayn. And he told me what they’re running through today.”

Sufficiently distracted, Louis lights up as he begins making his way down the corridor, Liam at his side. “Oh? Excellent. Harry’s been a bit of a neurotic mess this past week. Says he’s having trouble focusing.”

See, lately, Louis’ been seeing even more of Harry’s perfectionism when it comes to acting—the way he chastises himself and fine-points everything to a T, giving himself the hardest time if it’s anything less than outstanding. “If I just had some idea of the direction we’re working in…” Harry had said the day prior, wracking hands through his long strands of hair as he paced the dressing room. “Niall’s always having us do this scene, then that scene and there’s no—there’s no cohesive direction. I have no foundation, Louis, I’ve never been directed like this before. I’m embarrassing myself, I can’t even…” He sighed, slumping his shoulders as his hands fell to his sides, limp, a tired stare settling heavily on Louis. “I just wish I could have some… _warning_ about what’s expected of me each day. Just so I knew what mindset to have.” And Louis frowned as well, only managing to make them both smile when he uselessly handed Harry a crumpled piece of paper. “What’s this?” Harry’d asked, brow furrowed. “Just a bit of scratch paper Niall dropped earlier. But I thought you could use it to toss it at me head to, you know, vent some aggression. Or something.” “Louis. I’m not going to throw this at your head.” “Alright, then,” Louis nodded sagely before plucking it out of Harry’s hands and promptly throwing it at his forehead instead—where it bounced before falling to the ground, rolling beneath the wardrobe. For about three solid seconds, Harry had gaped at Louis in shock—then they both burst into laughter and Louis made a mental note to keep the smile on his face.

And so he’d had a word with Liam, his resident all-but-spy-and-gossip-columnist, and voila! Here they are.

Clearly proud of himself, Liam continues, voice smooth and steady as he rushes his words in a low tone. “Apparently, they’re going to begin focusing on the scenes between Harry and Sophia more. Say they need to work on their ‘chemistry’.” He ends he sentence with a disgruntled nose-scrunch, shaking his head as if the idea were absurd.

“Ah,” Louis replies, ignoring the barest twinge of irritation. “Well, thank you for the information, my most trusted pal.” He flashes a brief smile, knocking his elbow into Liam’s. “By the way, do you have the time? I suspect the morning is escaping me…”

Instantly, Liam’s fingers grapple for his polished pocketwatch, flicking it open in the most stylishly practiced way he can manage. “Five to eight, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, bullocks.” Louis is late. “Right, well I best scatter before Harry thinks I’ve stood him up again,” he sighs. (It happened once and it was only because Louis was watching the musicians; he loves the violin.) “But thank you, Li, I owe you, mate!” he sings sweetly before deftly plucking the cup of tea out of Liam’s hand and scampering down the hall, the liquid sloshing over the sides.

“Oi! That’s my tea, you vagrant!”

Laughing, he ignores Liam’s continued protests that echo in accordance with the soles of his shoes against marble.

**

“I come bearing gifts!” he announces loudly the minute the door shuts behind him, triumphantly raising the cup in the air as he beams at Harry—who’s sat in the vanity’s cherry wood chair, quietly skimming through one of the many novels that fill the room now, one of the many that he’s gotten for Louis. Despite Louis’ flushed protests, Harry keeps spoiling him, insisting that Louis should accept what he so happily gives.

“But you love to read so much,” Harry had said after Louis finally tried to put his foot down, feeling every bit undeserving of such generosity. It was when Harry still stuttered his words to Louis, his skin always a myriad of reds and pinks, hands never still. He pursed his lips as Louis frowned at him, book lying gently in his hands. “You’re always reading,” he continued, voice slow and illustrious. “And that’s when you look happiest. You get this look on your face, this rather remarkable expression, and you look so lovely—“ But then he stopped suddenly, as if frozen in time, and he paled remarkably, eyes widening. “Oh, I’m sorry, I apologize. That sounded—“ But Louis’ stomach slithered in a pleasant way, warm and surprised at the knowledge that Harry seemed to watch him, somehow made note of him, and he rushed to interject the man’s frantic backpedaling. “No, no,” Louis’d said soothingly, unable to tamp down his grin. He clutched the book to his chest, skin warm. “What a beautiful sentiment. I _am_ happiest when I read. Thank you, Harry.” He smiled even more when Harry returned it. “I certainly don’t deserve any of this but I can’t deny that I’m extremely, extremely grateful. Thank you.”

And that was the end of that.

For some reason, Harry just seems to enjoy buying Louis books and, for some reason, it makes Louis’ blood positively sing. He’s not used to gifts, is the thing, isn’t used to having such concentrated attention on him. He’s never had a friend like Harry. And that’s why he’s doing things like learning to sew and bringing him tea right now—even if it was, technically, Liam’s.

“Is that tea?” Harry then questions brightly, appearing pleased beneath his rich features and voluminous hair. Without waiting for a response, he shuts the book with a deft snap and stands in all his elongated glory, immediately gliding over to Louis, eyes flickering between his face and the prize he holds in his hands. Louis feels his cheeks prickle with a smile as he looks into Harry’s dark, darkest green eyes that always imprison his own somehow, no matter what. “For me?”

“No, sir, for me,” Louis replies easily, taking an exaggerated faux-sip, and Harry’s lips just curl into a smile. “But maybe next time for you, since I _suppose_ I am meant to tend to you.” He half-grins, flicking stray bits of hair out of his eyes. “Though I must apologize, today I was in a bit of a rush.”

“Indeed, I can see that,” Harry mumbles, eyes falling somewhere to Louis’ chest, where the soft, over-washed cotton of his shirt lay.

His pulse twitches a bit when Harry reaches out one hand, briefly pausing in its trajectory before continuing, his fingers carefully extending and finding purchase on Louis’ shirt. His expression is impassive, his motions slow.

Louis looks down, befuddled, lowering the cup of tea as his mind momentarily blanks.

“Forgot to button yourself up properly,” Harry merely explains in a soft rumble, all warm gold and melted wax as he gently re-buttons Louis’ shirt, eyelashes cast upon his pink tinged cheeks. His brows are pulling together, as they often seem to do, and he looks as gentle as he does focused, warm fingers brushing Louis’ tightening chest.

“Isn’t this supposed to be the other way around?” Louis finds his voice asking, a bit scratched and feigning lightness. “I’m the one supposed to be dressing you, Mr. Styles.”

But Harry just swallows, a bob of the throat. Louis watches the movement, curious.

“Indeed,” Harry finally murmurs, glancing up with unreadable eyes. “But I’m happy to return the favor.”

A thousand replies sit on Louis’ tongue but somehow he’s still unsure as to what to say right now, doesn’t understand the look in Harry’s eye that seems palpable, so instead he just smiles, offering up the tea again, if a little half-heartedly and confused. “Then that deserves a reward. Tea for you, after all.”

Harry’s fingers fall from Louis’ shirt. It feels cold in his wake.

 “Thank you,” he smiles though, gently bringing the cup to his lips and sniffing, long fingers pressed against the bone-white china. “It’s not very warm.” His lips lift.

Louis own mouth mirrors it. “Oi. Now, don’t be demanding, just because you’re the big name around here,” he teases joyously before picking up his satchel of brushes, unfolding the fabric swiftly as he feels Harry’s eyes on his back. As they always are—a comforting presence. “But guess what? I have news.”

“Oh?” Harry’s voice questions, clearly intrigued. The floorboards squeak and Louis can envision him shuffling from foot to foot, eyes dazed and glassy as he peers in the surface of his tea, mouth always caught between a deep frown and blinding smile. “What say you of this news? Is there to be a ball?”

Louis snorts. “Hardly. As if this place could survive a ball! Can you imagine Liam at such an affair? I’m quite sure he’d drown in his own pining, following Miss Smith around like a lost pup.”

He feels Harry smile, feels it as if it were pressing against the back of his neck. “You’re not wrong, I’m afraid. He is a bit directionless when it comes to her. Though, that’s the nature of love, isn’t it? To always be a bit lost?”

“I thought the point of love was to be found?” Louis questions, eyebrows scrunching. “Isn’t that what all the poets say?”

“Perhaps it’s both,” Harry mumbles, voice quieter as Louis cleans off a brush. “Feeling like you’re walking in the dark without a candle to light your way but also, perhaps, feeling more yourself than you ever have before.”

Brushing soft bristles against his palm, just to test, Louis feels himself smile, finally turning around. “That’s beautiful, Harry,” he admonishes, pleased, as he makes his way to him. Harry watches his movements, a brief smile flickering on his lips before it fades. “But you’re _distracting_ me, I was meant to tell you something.” He gently thumps his brush on Harry’s shoulder, making the man chuckle, soft and short. “I know your scenes today. A little birdie told me everything that Niall and Zayn wish to rehearse with you today.”

“Wait, really?” Harry questions as Louis sweeps the brush across his back, teacup still pressed to his lips. He looks tired and sleepless despite the luster of his eyes. “A birdie told the Little Swallow news? Pray then, tell me. Please.” He hums the words, muffled by the cup.

Louis feels warm with the reverb of his voice, likes the way Harry looks young and sweet and coy with teacups pressed to his mouth and toes pointed out, ruby lips tugging in all directions of very small smiles.  

“Well, my Prince,” Louis jokes lightly, always enjoying the way Harry beams at the nicknames. “Your scenes today are going to revolve around none other than Miss Smith herself. Apparently, they want to focus on your chemistry with her a bit more since it needs a bit of a touching up, if you catch my drift.” He sweeps the brush down Harry’s arm, flicking off stray lint and delicate hairs. Straightens his cuffs, smoothes the legs of his trousers with practiced hands. “I guess they’re hoping that by the end of the day, you’ll be as in love with her as Liam is. Or at least, appear to be as such.” He smiles, finally settling the brush back in the fabric satchel. “So, that’s the good news, then. Today’s trials revolve around convincing the world that you’re in love with Sophia Smith.” He laughs then, turning around to match his smile to Harry’s.

But Harry isn’t smiling.

Instead, he just lowers the teacup, setting it down on the table as something dark and clouded overcomes his features. With muted eyes, he stares at Louis, mouth slack and fallen, the composure of his face brittle. Fragile. He looks hurt, almost.

Louis’ smile slips away immediately, little bullets of confusion reigning down on him because what did he say? Did he offend him?

“Am I…not convincing?” Harry then asks, voice quiet, pitched in a question. He looks small right now, small and young and sad, and Louis wants to swallow up the past five minutes and change them, revert them back to when Harry was smiling with his cup, peaceful and untouched. He just wishes he knew what he _said._ “When I am with her onstage,” he continues, soft. “Am I not…” He drifts, eyes unblinking. Louis doesn’t know what’s wrong. “What’s wrong with it?”

Blinking, Louis fish-mouths, completely taken off guard. “Er—Harry, I’m sure they’re not attacking your skill. Chemistry’s just a natural occurrence, you either have it or you don’t, you know—“ he rambles, but Harry’s head snaps up more firmly, eyes sharp as he interjects.

“I don’t have it, then?” he demands, voice edged with offense and Louis can only stare at him right now, bewildered.

“What in the world, Harry?” he blinks, taking in the man’s agitated features with alarm. “You _know_ you have it, I’ve told you have it, but it’s perfectly normal for someone to have less chemistry with one actress than they would with another—“

“So you’re saying it’s them? It’s their fault that I’m not _convincing_ enough?” The word’s slathered in distaste, a bitter twist to Harry’s features as his skin flushes angrily, eyes looking so impossibly hopeless, so angry. “It’s their fault that nobody else believes I could ever fall in love with someone like that?”

Louis stares.

“Harry. It’s just a play,” he says slowly, feeling rather cold.

The room feels oddly silent between them, heavy with pause.

“Do they not think that I find her beautiful?” Harry then challenges, almost wildly, and Louis feels an uneven beat in his heart.

“I’m sure they do—“

But Harry barrels on, lost in his frustrations. “I thought I was doing well,” he continues in this bizarre streak of fury and hurt, whipping away from Louis and bowing his head, fists clenched at his sides. Louis watches the tendons pull, watches his skin pale and stretch over nimble points of bone. “I have been acting since I can remember, Louis. I’ve been told I’m a _natural_ , I’m _gifted,_ I’m a _prodigy_ , I’m everything this blasted language has a word for.” He pauses, the air dense, hanging like the thick velvet curtains of the stage. “And yet. I’ve never once succeeded in the role I’m meant to play.”

Furrowing his brow, Louis steps closer, frowning. “That’s untrue,” he protests gently, reaching out hands. “That’s positively untrue. You have succeeded with every role you’ve played, Harry—“

“Not every,” he adds quietly, shaking his head. He looks over to Louis, expression now barren. “I can play heartbreak, defeat, torment, betrayal, hope… Everything.” His lips press together, cut dark against his skin. The lights around him flicker, flames soft. “But, tell me, Louis Tomlinson. Why can I never play love?”

Silence follows the sentence, filling Louis’ orifices as he just continues to stare, at a loss. His limbs feel heavy, his brain full.

Where is this all _coming_ from?

“Look, Harry,” he tries to placate, something gnawing in his chest as he watches Harry’s sadness, all murky and distant and suddenly so far away. As if he were caught beneath the surface of a lake. “I can just tell Zayn and Niall that you don’t wish to rehearse your scenes with Miss Smith if you—“

“No. It’s not—“ But Harry stops, sighing with frustration as he combs a hand through his hair, shaking his head with the sort of bone-weary exhaustion one as young as him should never know. When he looks back up, a ghost of a false smile haunts his lips, eyes drooping. “Never mind it. It’s fine. I clearly need more practice in the matter. I’ll find them at once and begin.”

It does nothing to ease the weight in Louis’ chest, the frown that’s now pressed into his cheeks. Stepping forward, he reaches out a gentle hand, fingers grasping. “Wait, Harry—“

But Harry turns swiftly around, shoulders stiff. “Thank you, Louis,” is all he says.

And the door shuts.

Louis stares, cooling tea on the table beside him, china still smudged from Harry’s lips.

**

The entire rest of the day is off. Louis can feel it, Louis can see, and Louis can hear it as he watches the stage intently for countless hours, chin tucked in the nest of his folded arms.

Down below, Harry strains, Harry frowns, and Harry’s eyes always flash to where Louis lurks in the shadows, so high up in the balcony.

And Louis doesn’t get it, still doesn’t understand what’s even bloody _wrong_ , but he sees the way Harry’s shoulders slump with defeat whenever Niall asks him to repeat a line, insisting he doesn’t feel it. Miss Smith looks similarly confused, head tilted as she watches Harry exhale, pinching his eyes shut as he mutters beneath his breath. Zayn watches him closely from his seat, chain-smoking.

“He’s been off today,” Louis mumbles hours later, when he glides over to him.

Zayn’s darkened eyes glance sidelong at him, before once again watching as Harry pours his heart out to Miss Smith on bended knee, beseeching the moon and tossing his crown to the ground. He pleads, he begs, but it’s with the sort of manic desperation that is separate from love, somehow. Harry acts so beautifully, it’s true—but he does not appear to be a man in love. He appears to be a man imprisoned, if anything.

Louis frowns all the more.

“He’s over-thinking it.”

“He always does,” Louis mumbles, low.

“He’s unfamiliar with true romance,” Zayn continues, as if Louis hasn’t spoken. “He must be. Or else this wouldn’t be taking up _my entire bloody day_.” He growls, swigging back from a bottle of wine, dripping blood-red droplets out the neck. His lips are ringed with the color. “Isn’t he a man of great prowess? Cavorted with all his actresses? Pull from your bloody experiences, man!” He shouts, frustrated.

“Zayn,” Louis chastises firmly, plucking the bottle from his hands as Niall glances over to them from where he’s sat up ahead, a firm look of concentration on his face. “Don’t be harsh on him. Harry’s trying. It’s pretty damn obvious how much he’s trying.”

Bleary, Zayn pulls his head out of his hands, glaring at Louis. “Then why isn’t he succeeding?”

They glare at each other as the seconds pass, Harry’s voice drifting from the stage, before Louis finally looks away, sighing as he swigs from the bottle and settles deeper into the stiff velvet chair.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles, feeling inexplicably sad. Harry stands up onstage, stalking off with stiff shoulders after Niall’s called for a break. “I really don’t know.”

**

It’s hours later, deep into the night.

Louis’ still at the theater, sitting in Caroline’s room and watching her tired hands stitch one of Miss Smith’s many gowns, shadows beneath her eyes. He’s tried to help as much as he can, stitching little bits of this and that, but his limited expertise has been used up and now he’s just sat here, holding fabric and handing over pins whenever she grunts for one, exhausted. The candles are burning down, the gas lamps dim.

He’s been here for most of the evening, only leaving briefly to tend to Harry—who was silent and shadowed dark as he allowed Louis to slip his coat on, lips pressed tight. Neither spoke, the air thick. Then Louis watched him leave in a storm, sad and strangely empty as he heard the snick of the door shutting. And that was that.

He frowns at the memory, handing Caroline her scissors.

“I’ll be finished after this,” she mutters, pins in her teeth as she glances up. “You can run along, love.”

Louis merely shrugs, tired. “I can help you clean up?”

But she shakes her head, hands swiftly moving over the fabric. “Louise’ll do it in the morning. Get some sleep. You don’t look all that well around the eyes.”

Splendid.

Sighing, Louis nods as he slowly stands, limbs stiff and back crackling, before gently depositing his load of fabric onto the chair. Rubbing the back of his neck, he stifles a yawn, waving a lazy hand Caroline’s way. “G’night, then,” he mumbles, quiet and low, and Caroline merely nods, focused on her stitching.

He walks down the corridor, empty and shadowed. Very dark. Lonely. It seems to match his mood. The heels of his shoes echo, warbled.

Liam’s probably gone. Niall and Zayn, too.

Another yawn escapes him as he drifts to the stage hall, not quite ready to retreat to his empty flat where the mice scuttle and the wind sneaks through. He might just sit for awhile, absorb the silence and the peace, the way everything seems quiet and frozen when it’s deserted of its occupants, lain bare and cold and untouched. He likes to do that sometimes—just sit awhile, take a moment, breathe.

It’s when he’s entering the darkened hall, weaving his way between the long aisles, eyes on his shoes, that he hears him.

 _“I dreamed I stood upon a hill,”_ Harry’s voice echoes, quiet and low, surging like the tide.

Louis sucks in a breath as his head snaps up, eyes widening as he takes in the man’s appearance; he’s onstage, alone, a handful of electric lights lit and casting him in elongated shadows and distortions. He looks solitary and beautiful, poetic and fragile. Maddened with exhaustion in his eyes, bright with youth in his rose garden lips. Louis stops dead in his tracks, straining to hear the words.

Is he reciting his lines? Hadn’t he left hours ago? What’s he doing here? Is he really that bent out of shape because of the thing with Miss Smith? Does he do this every night?

Question upon question pelt the inside of Louis’ skull but as he listens further, hidden amongst the shadows of the mahogany and crimson walls, the air tinged with dust and wax, he finds Harry’s words unfamiliar. Alien. Unheard.

So not the script, then. Something else… Perhaps another play?

_“…and through green nets  
Blue eyes of shy peryenche winked in the sun…”_

It sounds like a poem with the cadence of his voice, the pause between his words. He recites easily, calmly, words twisted in his mouth as he halfheartedly illustrates the lines with one hand, elegant and spidery. A natural.

_“…I saw two walking on a shining plain  
Of golden light…”_

Slowly, Louis creeps forward, straining to hear the words that fall so effortlessly from Harry’s lips. They sound rehearsed, well cherished. Perhaps not his own, then? Perhaps something from a book. From a poet.

 _“’What is thy name?’ He said, ‘My name is Love.’_  
Then straight the first did turn himself to me  
And cried, ‘He lieth, for his name is Shame,  
But I am Love, and I was wont to be  
Alone in this fair garden, till he came  
Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill  
The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.’”

Silence suddenly falls momentarily, as Harry’s hand falls to his side, his head bowing ever so slightly. Curls obscure one half his face, shadows encapsulate the other.

When his lips part, they part in something mournful. Longing.

Louis steps closer, itching to hear.

 _“Then sighing, said the other…”_ Harry drifts, clenching one fist that he slowly brings to his heart, solid as stone. His head bows lightly.

_“‘Have thy will,  
I am the love that dare not speak its name.’”_

A hush falls over the empty room, stealing Louis’ exhales as he watches, fascinated, while Harry closes soft eyelids over green eyes, watches his hand slowly unclench and fall. Like a bird shot out of the sky.

His breath feels entirely too loud as he slowly makes his way forward, careful in his step, watching Harry standing alone, solitary, lonely, atop the stage. A mighty figure, no doubt. But Louis finds him…very secluded. Isolated, almost. Inexplicably, it fills him with sadness, fills him with something he wants to itch away and fix, and so he’s not quite thinking when he picks up his pace and nearly trots down the aisle, eyes glued to Harry.

“Oi! What are you doing here!” he finds his voice calling, making Harry nearly jump out of his skin as his head shoots up, brows drawn.

“Louis?” he questions, startled, squinting into the darkness as Louis nears him, smiling. “What are you doing here?” He looks alarmed through his exhaustion, as if just woken from a deep slumber, indents beneath his bright eyes.

Louis stops just short of the stage, settling hands on hips. Heart beating steady. “Just helping Caroline with a few costumes. Figured I could be of service to her. Was just about to head out when I noticed the lights were on,” he lies easily. He’s unsure if he was meant to hear anything. “Thought I’d say hello. And inquire as to why you’re still here. Thought you’d be in your rooms fast asleep by now.” He smiles, soft.

Beneath the dim lights, Harry returns it, if it a bit wearily. There’s a nervous edge to his posture as he shifts, biting briefly at his lip. Eyes dart around. “I must confess, I’m not very tired. Not just yet. Thought I’d rehearse a bit more. Try to, er, gain a familiarity with my lines.” He smiles sourly, self-depreciatingly. “Can’t seem to find my footing just yet.”

“Oh, and Miss Smith has?” Louis questions, amused. Harry just ducks his head. “Look, I understand that you’re going to be hard on yourself—we always are our own worst critic—but I’m begging you, Harry, positively _begging_ you, to just leave it for today, yeah? You’re brilliant, you’re capable, and you’ve got this, alright? It will come when it comes. Don’t doubt yourself so much.”

“Man’s only responsibility is to doubt himself,” he immediately counters, words languid and wry.

But Louis merely rolls his eyes, allowing his smile to remain. “I contest that, sir. Man’s only responsibility is to live, alright? And it looks to me as if you’re doing just that—living and breathing. It looks to me as though you’ve traveled around the world itself and met hundreds, maybe thousands, of people. It looks as if you’re a man of great talent, who holds great respect, and has a true friendship in me, if nothing else. And it most certainly looks like you need a break from the stage for a bit, so come on down, mate. Come ‘live’ with me for a bit, yeah? Set the doubt aside for someone else for awhile. Leave it onstage. I’m sure Zayn would love to collect it in the morning. You know how he enjoys suffering.” He smiles, lopsided, hoping for it to catch.

There’s a moment’s pause, one where the air settles between their bodies, Harry’s atop the stage, Louis’ below, and the dust drifts and the quiet lingers and their eyes clasp together—but then Harry’s smiling, almost properly now, and he nods, slowly making his way off the stage and descending the stairs.

“And what do you suggest, then?” he asks, quizzical as he studies Louis’ face upon nearing him. Already, he seems younger, brighter. Smoother around his edges. “This ‘living’ you speak of. What exactly does this entail? At this hour, I can only imagine what London must be up to.”

“Oh, it’s up to many a thing, I can assure you,” Louis snorts, allowing Harry to fall into step beside him as they begin to retreat from the hall, leaving the stage behind. “Are you not familiar with the city?”

“Not entirely.” Harry shrugs, unbothered. He stares straight ahead, a striking profile. “Haven’t had time to explore yet.”

Louis stops mid-step. “Wait, what?”

Harry stops too, seemingly amused. “What?” he mutters, one corner of his mouth twitching as he observes Louis’ wide, incredulous eyes. “I just said I haven’t had time to explore.”

No time to explore? The play’s been in production for _months_ now.

Shaking his head, Louis snorts, appalled. “Well!  That certainly needs to change, doesn’t it? C’mon, then. Off we go.”

And, without another word, Louis drags Harry by his warm, larger hand down the aisles, smiling to himself when he hears the surprised, breathy chuckles and protests.

“At this hour? Surely not!”

“Surely.”

“But it’s rather unsafe, isn’t it?”

“Oh, vastly so. Therefore our options are limited, of course. But I’m sure I can find you something? We can walk the streets of London by moonlight! The stars will pave our way!” Louis grins cheekily, flashing a wink to Harry who smiles larger in response, eyes liquidy in the dark.

“Can you even see the stars from here?” he questions, amused, feet stumbling over each other. His body moves easily, freely, and Louis revels at the feel of it, their smiles shared in the darkness as they emerge into the corridor. Darkened portraits hang on the walls, unlit lamps glowing cool.

“Well. No,” Louis sighs, long-suffering. “ _Clearly_. It’s just a metaphor, Harry, please.”

And Harry just laughs, suddenly unburdened as he allows himself to be tugged forward, his fingers clasping tighter around Louis’ own.

**

Somehow, they’ve ended up taking Harry’s carriage.

“I’m meant to walk you through the streets of London,” Louis had stated blankly as he stared at Harry’s awaiting carriage, inviting and warm, the door held open by an older gentleman with heavy-set wrinkles by his eyes. “I can’t possibly—“

“But it’s raining,” Harry had insisted with a frown, gesturing to the sky.

It was hardly raining. More like spitting, if anything. Perfectly walkable weather.

But Harry’s frown lines were deep, his eyes wide, and Louis just sighed as he eyed the man holding the door for him, stepping unsurely into a carriage that felt a little too far out of his league.

And so. Here they are.

“Erm. Thank you,” he mumbles after awhile, jostling with the steady rhythm of horse hooves that click through the empty streets. Streetlamps bleed through the small windows, illuminating half of Harry’s face. Ghostly.

He smiles, soft, eyes floating to Louis. “You’re welcome. I hope you’re not terribly cross with me.”

“Not at all,” Louis shakes his head, aware of the close confines of the buggy, the way his and Harry’s knees brush on every bump of the cobbled streets. They’re facing each other, slumped on black velvet and listening to the bullets of rain hit the roof, the wheels barreling through puddles. Distant thunder rumbles low and it reminds Louis of Harry’s voice. “I am sorry that I’m not being a very good tour guide, however. Perhaps when it’s less rainy, though. And not in the dead of night.” He smiles wryly, body jostling with the movement of the carriage.

The rhythm of the hooves is like a heartbeat. Soothing.

He yawns, covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Tired?” Harry asks quietly, watching him. Dark ribbons are tied around his collar, clustered and tumbling down his chest, interlacing with the longer strands of his curls.

Elegant, Louis thinks. Soft.

“Only a little,” he smiles, eyes lazy. “But not too tired to entertain you, sir.”

Harry merely snorts, tearing his deep eyes away to look out the window, lips pressed together and plump. “I can take you home? Where do you live?”

The rain pitter patters. The soles of Louis’ feet ache.

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I don’t mind the walk,” he mumbles hastily, warmth crawling up his neck. His flat, though comfortable enough for himself, is hardly something he wants to show off. It’s shabby, far less luxurious than anything Harry is used to, he’s sure.

Pinching his brow, Harry looks back to him. “You mustn’t walk,” he states, as though the idea were personally offensive. “I’m more than happy to take you there. You’ll catch a chill in this weather.”

“I really don’t mind,” Louis presses, a little strained as he avoids Harry’s eye. “It’s not…posh, or anything. Worse than the likes of you. You shouldn’t trouble yourself—if you stop here, I can walk. It’s not far.”

“Then it won’t be any trouble to just drop you off,” Harry insists, voice firm, but there’s kindness in his eyes, an imploring look that has Louis turning his head to hide a small smile, feeling inexplicably touched.

“Well. Alright,” he relents moments later, words as soft as the rain. Harry looks up. A timid smile paints Louis’ lips. “If you’re sure. Then, yeah. I’d appreciate the lift home.”

Harry smiles brilliantly, nodding once.

**

Somehow, Louis asks him inside.

He’s stepping out of the carriage, the driver holding an umbrella over him as Harry leans forward awkwardly, looking on the verge of helping Louis down yet still holding himself back, lip tucked between his teeth. His skin is ghostly pallid in the dark, eyes all but black and holding the glow of stars. The moisture in the air clings to his hair and it’s frizzy but it’s still nice, it’s adorable, even, and Louis finds himself staring as he stands in the rain, caught in something he can’t quite explain.

The rain pours, the gutters slurp. A dog barks in the distance, echoing off of darkened rooftops. Puddles collect at Louis’ soggy feet, warbling the lights from streetlamps.

Harry hasn’t said goodbye.

Neither has Louis.

“It’s not much,” he finds himself suddenly saying without introduction, voice loud over the rain. He stares at Harry, who stares back, unblinking. Perched, waiting. Anticipatory, almost. “It’s just a small flat. Not a lot to see. But you’re welcome to join me for a bit. If…if you’re not tired, of course.”

He doesn’t know why his heart thumps loud enough to rattle his ribs.

It settles though, when Harry nods.

“If you don’t mind?” he asks but he’s already stepping down, joining Louis beneath the umbrella. He looks down at him, not by much, and their toes are almost touching, tips of their noses pink.

“Not at all, sir,” Louis replies quietly, breath beginning to fog. Their chests almost bump.

And Harry nods, mumbling a few words to his driver, and then they’re walking.

**

As quickly as it came, the rain subsides.

“It’s stopped,” Harry says softly in the quiet of the flat, watching as Louis lights his candles. He’s stood in the middle of the room, intermittently tilting his head to absorb the details greedily, fascinated, eyes roaming the lone bookshelf where Louis keeps his treasured collection of books. He walks to it, ghosting hands over their spines. “It must’ve been waiting until we found shelter. How convenient.” He smiles, wry.

Louis chuckles as he blows out his match, turning around and shucking off the straps of his braces, letting them hang. Harry’s eyes follow the movement and Louis feels it, feels his stare, but he can’t explain the fissures or the question marks in his brain, doesn’t know what the syrupy thickness that sometimes lies between them means, so he just yawns and stretches, turning away. His chest feels light as the floor creaks, newly-budded moonlight streaming through his window.

“Not that I mind, of course,” Harry continues, still looking around in wonder. He smiles, catching Louis’ eye. “Thank you for letting me come. I love this. It’s all so…you.” He smiles, fond, before stepping to the window and peering outside, hands in the pockets of his coat.

Louis feels himself smiling, a dusting of a feeling. “You’re welcome. I don’t get many visitors, so… I’m sorry if I’m not a very good host.”

“Alas,” Harry shrugs, unbothered. “I don’t need you to be.” He peers through the windowpanes, craning his neck to see the moon that’s begun to peak out from the clouds.

Louis watches him from a distance, caught up in the striking silhouette he makes, and thinks that Harry would probably cry for the moon after all. He would look lovely splashed against the night sky.

Blinking, an idea forms.

“Are you very afraid of heights?” he asks suddenly, walking to stand beside him.

Harry turns to him, hands falling to his sides. Silently, he shakes his head.

Louis smiles. “Come on, then,” he says with just a puff of mischief, gesturing Harry to follow him as he unlatches the large window.

“What? On the roof?” Harry asks, a little perplexed, but he’s stood right behind Louis, so close Louis can feel the tail end of his breath whisper along the shell of his ear, and he smiles at the feeling, shivers at the feeling, and crooks a smile over his shoulder as the glass panes push open easily beneath his palm.

“Thought you weren’t scared,” he teases, gently easing himself up.

Harry watches him, amusement budding in his eyes. One eyebrow rises as he takes a step forward, hands tentatively resting on the windowsill. “What if I hurt myself? The play will be ruined.”

“Pffft,” Louis snorts, offering both hands as he squats from outside, steady. “As if I’d let you hurt your pretty mug. Zayn would skin me alive. Niall would do worse. Don’t worry, Prince, I won’t let you fall.”

A sweet smile flushes Harry’s lips as he takes the offered hands without another second’s thought, pushing himself onto the roof. “Thank you, Swallow. Will you stay with me one night longer?”

A familiar quote, a bit of an inside joke at this point. It’s become part of their daily rapport and Louis wishes it wasn’t as dear to him as it is.

Chortling, Louis nods, breathy and amused as he pulls Harry up, keeping his hands locked in his until he’s safely settled by his side, bums pressed against wet shingles. “I will stay with you one night longer,” he quotes, routine. Easy as breathing.

“Good,” Harry smiles, looking up into the sky. The clouds are un-clumping, breaking apart and drifting slowly past the moon.

Louis feels his own smile as he gazes upward, finding a few scattered stars poking through. It’s peaceful up here, even moreso at night than in the morning, and he closes his eyes as he inhales deep, rain and moisture in his nostrils, fresh, cool air tickling at his skin. It feels peaceful and calm, blue and beautiful, and he feels the warmth from Harry’s body beside him, seeping into his own. Comforting and strong, his scent tinted with citrus and glamorous musk. A hint of rose.

“It’s lonelier,” Harry suddenly says softly, still looking up into the ebony sky, hands clasping each other. Louis’ eyes peel open at the sound, immediately looking over to him. “Lonelier than I expected. Being famous.”

Small dollops of silence pass, speckled like the shy stars above.

“Are you sad?” Louis asks at last, because it seems the most blunt thing to wonder. He watches Harry’s profile, lit only by blue moonlight, eyes endlessly dark.

Turning his head to Louis, he stares, long and quiet, chest gently rising and falling with silent breath. So peaceful, serene.

Beautiful, Louis thinks.

“Sometimes very much so,” he says quietly, unblinking. His eyes look darkest blue right now, swallowed by his surroundings. Reflecting the world.

“I’m sorry,” Louis replies gently, reaching out just once to dust careful knuckles along Harry’s arm before retreating his hand, unsure. Just a flash of a feeling but Louis feels the sparks in his knuckles still and he sees Harry’s lips twitch, the bob of his throat.

“I’m not sad right now,” he says quietly, turning to look him in the eye.

“No?”

Harry shakes his head firmly. “No.” And then his lips morph, twist into a small smile that looks as soft as the cushions that sit on the ornate couches in Liam’s sitting room. “I’m not sad when I’m with you.”

Despite the ripple of pleasure that shoots up Louis’ spinal cord, he still manages a playful smirk, bumping his shoulder against Harry’s. “I’m sure that’s not true. I always make you sad. Like when I force you to give me errands? And when your tea gets cold because I forget to tell you I’ve brought you some. And when I abandon you when you need help with your costume because I enjoy watching the others rehearse from the balcony. I make you sad plenty, sir.”

Harry’s fully grinning now, looking as easy and confident with his own happiness that it rolls something through Louis. It’s rare to see Harry so at peace, so calm and unquestioningly happy. His teeth are large, probably larger than is custom, and they’re white and straight—beautiful just like the rest of him. They procure a large dimple from his cheek, this deep little dent that Louis finds himself staring at for no other reason than just because it’s something new he’s noticed on Harry. And he finds every bit of Harry fascinating.

“I like this,” he finds himself mumbling, gently poking a knuckle in the hollow. Warm skin against cool skin.

Briefly, Harry’s smile falters, his gaze quieting as he leans infinitesimally closer, allowing the almost-caress.

But then Louis lets his hand fall and Harry leans away, the chord between them broken as the night carries on with its cool breezes and faint echoes of trains.

“Perhaps it’s late,” Louis says quietly after a few stretches of silence pass, something odd in his stomach. Heavy, burrowing. Insistent.

Harry nods, smile still faded away, eyes like glass. Shards stuck in Louis. “Perhaps. I should go.”

“You’re welcome to stay,” Louis offers without much thought, the itching in his skin clouding his judgment. It’s improper, he’s sure, but being around Harry is addicting somehow, being in his presence is so infectious. “M’bed isn’t much but I don’t mind the floor.”

“No, of course not,” Harry shakes his head, eyebrows coming together in his customary manner. “I wouldn’t dream of imposing.”

“It wouldn’t be a bother,” Louis shrugs but Harry shakes his head firmly.

“I’ve a room being paid for. Might as well make good use of it.”

“Alright. But the offer’s always available,” Louis smiles as they shakily stand atop the uneven roof, the heels of their shoes imbedded in the chunky shingles.

Softly, Harry smiles as he follows Louis through the window. “Thank you.”

Louis lands softly before turning around, extending one hand which Harry takes hesitantly, long fingers enveloping Louis’ as he stumbles to the ground; Louis steadies him with his free hand, hand pressed against his side, gripping gently beneath his jacket. It’s a bit impolite, his skin so flush with only the thin layer that separates Harry’s abdomen from direct contact, but Louis can’t find it in himself to care or retreat his hand, just looking up into Harry’s bright eyes with a small smile that won’t leave his lips.

“Steady on,” he murmurs.

Harry hasn’t let go of his hand.

“Yeah,” he whispers back, scratchy like the shingles they left behind.

They stare at each other a moment longer, moonlight pouring in from the open window behind them, cloaking their figures and casting elongated silhouettes of navy blue. Louis’ hand burns on Harry’s side, their fingers remain still, pressed against each other, their bodies frozen. Louis can smell everything that clings to Harry’s skin, his clothes. The perfumes in his hair, the rose petals from his bath.

It’s dizzying.

“Goodnight,” Harry mumbles at last, eyes ripping away from Louis’ mouth—he hadn’t even realized Harry’d been staring—before taking a firm step back. Their hands drop, the contact now gone, leaving cold, damp air in its wake.

“Till tomorrow, Harry,” Louis smiles, a little shakily, as he watches Harry retreat.

Before the door closes, Harry looks at him, something lingering in his stare. But before Louis can question it, the door shuts and there’s just the flat, the moonlight, and Louis’ heart, beating at an unsteady rhythm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the fic that never eeeends, it will go on and on, my frieeeends... Oi. Well. Let's hope this is over soon, yes? 
> 
> Thank you for reading and leaving all your lovely messages. I do read them, I'm just incompetent, overwhelmed garbage that can't seem to actually reply to them. Why am I awful? I'm awful. But thank you, I love you all.


	9. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally making up everything, literally just having fun. So there's probably a lot of inaccurate stuff.... And that's fine. *peace sign emoji*

The morning after the night at Louis’ flat, Harry had, once again, been a little off in his behavior.

Through the hollows of his exhaustion, Louis could note the now familiar manner in which Harry’s eyes darted around, careful to inspect every millimeter of the room that didn’t include Louis, his hands white-knuckled and pressed together at intervals, lips pursed, and throat continuously bobbing on a swallow. His lips were smudgy red, a shade brighter than the walls around them, and his skin was dull and white against the warm lights.

Still, he looked so beautiful—somehow fragile and impenetrable all at once—and Louis hovered around him, skin itchy, trying to catch his eye because he didn’t want any of these awkward moments anymore. He was done with the back-and-forth, the hot-and-cold, the hesitance.

All he wanted was the boy who laughed with him atop the splintered shingles on the roof of his shitty flat the previous night. He wanted the Prince who cried for the moon.

“You know,” Louis suddenly began after clearing his throat, the silence having become just a bit too palpable as he gently folded over the cuffs of Harry’s ruffled shirt; the man in question jolted at the sound of Louis’ voice, wide eyes zeroing in on him with rather impressive immediacy. His posture was stiff, rigid, everything about him tense; Louis was sure that, should he place his hand on the sharp angle of his shoulder, the muscles there would’ve been bunched together like knotted rope, tight and coiled and unyielding. He sighed to himself before continuing, eyes focused on his work. “I really enjoyed your company last night.” He paused, taking note of the barely audible intake of Harry’s breath above him. “And should you ever want to…get away from things anytime, I’d be more than happy to have you again.” Gently, he released Harry’s wrists, cuffs now crisp and neat. He smiled as he said the next words. “Just wanted to let you know. You’re always welcome.”

Harry’s eyes, which had been intently watching him the entire time, blinked then, slow and languid with a touch of curiosity. “I am?” he asked, seeming genuinely intrigued by the prospect, perhaps even taken aback. Which was a bit silly.

Still, Louis nodded, flashing up a smile as he bent to straighten Harry’s trouser legs. “Yes, of course, always.”

“Oh.” Again, Harry blinked, as if surprised, before his shoulders relaxed noticeably and a relieved smile lit his face, erasing the stone, the hesitation, the very distant storminess. “Why…thank you. Thank you, Louis.” A warm hand then reached out, gently clasping Louis’ elbow where it was bent, still tugging on the hem of Harry’s right trouser leg. Gently, Harry’s fingers squeezed the exposed flesh of Louis’ arm, where his shirt was pushed up, warm skin against warm skin. Startled, Louis looked up, blinking into Harry’s eyes that appeared so much closer than they really were, green and cloudy and soft. “I mean it,” Harry continued, soft. Warm like his fingertips. “You’ve been a great friend to me during my time here. Helped me more than you know, I’m sure. I’d…really like to take you up on your generosity, should it be of no inconvenience to you.”

“Of course it’s not,” Louis replied instantly, though his voice was uncharacteristically soft, his body frozen as he felt Harry’s fingers release from his arm, whispering away as quickly as they’d come. He smiled, slowly rising to stand, enjoying the way Harry’s face appeared in the morning, still puffy from sleep and seemingly so warm. “Tonight even, if you wish. I’ve no plans, I’m a simple man. Would you join me for more rooftop gazing? Or perhaps things will get a bit rambunctious and we can sit on chairs?”

Just like that, Harry laughed and the sound filled the room, low and smooth as it was, slipping around Louis’ limbs and floating amongst the clothes hanging in the wardrobe. Just like that, it was so easy again as he nodded and accepted the invitation, eyes never straying from Louis, making him feel like a _king_ with the way he stared so reverently, paying attention to every detail like the true gentleman he was.

And over time, it’s become even easier.

Harry’s presence grows. He laughs louder, moves faster, talks more, _exists_ more. He takes the stage in a storm, rehearsing with a strong voice and unapologetic strides, slender and draped in finely tailored trousers that Louis knows the texture of because he irons them in the mornings and nights, because he slides hands down the endless expanse of Harry’s legs as he smoothes the material and smiles as the man’s words drop down on him from above.

Harry also now actively seeks Louis out. Fresh from his carriage, fresh from the stage, fresh from any morsel of time where he’s away, he always, _always_ finds Louis, always, his smiles slowly dawning on his face as he brushes hair away from his eyes. Sometimes the strands catch on his shiny lips, splayed across the soft skin, and Louis wonders if it’s because they’re still moist from when he licks them absently, bitten too harshly from his nerves and sharp teeth. Or maybe it’s because they’re dry and cracked like the paint that chips away on the balcony and flecks Louis’ shirt. Louis isn’t sure but he wants to know, eyes caught up in them as Harry greets him with velvet in his mouth and strides that bring the tips of his gleaming Oxfords almost flush with Louis’ worn boots. Always so close with tea on his breath, sometimes wine. Always warm with eyes that glint with mischief and fascination.

And even on the days where Harry struggles, with himself, with his acting, during his manic bouts of self-doubt and hair-ripping frustration, he still will look to Louis with soft eyes, listening to his words with rapt attention and patience, hands quieting to his sides. Louis’ presence seems to calm him, soothe the punctured line of his brow and twist of his jaw, and it makes Louis’ chest feel like he’s got holes in his lungs, too much and not enough air filling them.

It would appear that Harry’s grown rather fond of him. Perhaps almost as fond as Louis has grown of him. Maybe even as much as the theater itself has grown attached.

Because Harry makes everybody laugh—even Zayn whose mouth warbles and shakes as he tries to bite away his amusement, glancing at Niall with one of those secret looks they share betwixt each other. Caroline and Louise delight in him, shrieking their laughter during his fittings as he smiles a bit smugly over a well-delivered joke, making Louis roll his eyes from the corner, biting back his own laughter that always ends up slipping through regardless. Liam chuckles heartily whenever they’re engaged in small talk, pleased as pie over Harry’s impeccable manners and thoughtful questions that allow Liam to speak for several run-on sentences long. Hell, even Mr. Higgins has grown a warmth in his smile for the lad. All the while as Harry twirls onstage with the confidence of the marvel that he is, spinning a giggling Miss Smith between scenes (who is positively besotted with him as well) as Louis claps from the wings, laughing with Ed and Caroline and Louise because Harry is different now, Harry is brighter now, Harry is… Well. He’s probably just being Harry Styles. The real sort, the one that the papers and the uppities of society aren’t privy to.

Louis hears the violins in the pit croon and he thinks of Harry’s eyes, their soft glaze and color. He hears the cello of his curls, the flute of his smile. It’s bloody ridiculous and he feels the syrup in his own smile, even before Liam gives him a quizzical look and waves a hand in front of his eyes.

“Your face has gone all funny,” he’ll say, frowning with concern. “Are you quite alright, Lou?”

“Hm. Quite,” Louis will respond, voice in a dream as he rips his gaze away from Harry, where he’s deep in conversation with Zayn and Niall, gesticulating through the air and smiling so sweetly through his words. And Liam usually drops it after that, face still a bit muddled with confusion, as Louis sighs from deep inside his chest.

Furthermore, Harry and Miss Smith are also finding more of a groove now and it’s lovely to see, their budding friendship, the way that Harry patiently coaches her through her more…difficult times. It’s improved her skill greatly.

“She still sounds like a rabid animal,” Zayn’ll often stubbornly remark through a glower but it’s now delivered with less manic heat behind it so, really, Louis considers everything a success.

Basically, _everything_ is just going so smoothly, so wonderfully. Louis constantly feels like birds are fluttering against his innards, his ribs their cage, and he knows it’s all down to Harry, because of Harry, and he knows the fluttering is fanciful, knows it’s all foolish and youthful and silly but…

But he can’t rid of such a feeling when Harry creeps up to the balcony to find him between his scenes, a little uneven smile on his face, crouching low for no other reason than just because he’s a silly little mess, all swan limbs and hunched back.

“Found you,” he‘ll greet quietly, all hot molasses, and it melts any hesitation Louis could have possibly built up. So, so much.

“Found me,” he’ll say back, soft as he brushes hair from his eyes and scoots over, making room for Harry.

They sit together and talk in low mumbles, stifling laughter behind the backs of hands while their thighs brush, their elbows clack. Harry smells of perfume and citrus and the stage and Louis smells of polish and worn cotton and it’s an intoxicating combination for no other reason than just because it’s them.

He knows it’s all foolishness—his attachment to Harry. He knows it’s wistful and unthinkable and implausible and laughably unrealistic. Everything about the feelings the man inspires within him are odd, utterly bizarre, given their context of impossibility. But, be that as it may, the reality of the situation does nothing to tamp down the surge of complete _feeling_ Harry Styles inspires in Louis Tomlinson. Always.

Even now, as Harry glides across the length of the room with his arms outstretched, in his white ruffled button-up with the black silk trim, cuffs unbuttoned and falling around his slender wrists as he gesticulates the air, head thrown back in a pose.

“I am not a man, I am a prince!” he recites effortlessly with the added bonus of over-the-top grandeur for Louis’ amusement.

Louis laughs, loud and unabashed as the backs of his heels press into the wood of the vanity’s drawers where he’s perched, the well-worn script secure between his hands. The pages are bent now,  crinkled, dog-eared, and smudged with notes and stray droplets of tea from its continual use, especially as of late—over time, Harry’s been more insistent on rehearsing with Louis; rather than spurning his advice now, he seems to absorb it hungrily, open to suggestion and criticism alike, always eager to hear Louis’ opinion.

“Not gonna snap at me again, are you, Stroppy?” Louis had teased on the first day Harry had come to him, script in hand. His buttonhole was a green carnation; it matched his eyes and Louis found his own rather drawn to the odd little flower.

“No,” Harry had replied very seriously, the portrait of professionalism. “Not at all. On the contrary, I feel that I’ll be indebted to you, Louis. You seem to understand things on a level that the others don’t. I respect your opinions and cherish your advice.”

The compliment was a grand one, indeed. Louis felt his skin warm as he ducked a smile that he tried to push back in his lips, aware that he smiled far too often around Harry these days.

“Well,” he sang loftily, stepping forth to take the script in one hand, unable to resist brushing fingers against the green carnation with the other; Harry noted the movement, eyebrows rising in surprise. “If it means you’ll be _indebted_ to me then I can hardly say no to that, can I?” The words were a touch too breathy, his nostrils filled with the dim scent of the flower. Maybe it was his imagination. Maybe it was Harry’s eyes.

Or maybe it was the way Harry’s neutral expression broke into one of softness as he gently unstuck the flower from his jacket, instead offering it to Louis in an open palm.

“A trade?” he suggested, syllables slow. The satin of his shirt glowed. “A flower for your assistance?”

Louis readily accepted before the sentence was even finished.

“The color of your eyes for a bit of your time? A deal in my favor,” he found himself replying, smiling as truthfully as he let himself in that moment, feeling the relieved patter of his heart when Harry’s own face mirrored the expression, something beautiful passing in his gaze. A flush speckled the pallor of his neck and, in that moment, Louis wondered how such warm skin would feel brushed against his dry lips.

But he tossed the thought away before it could manifest, instead turning away, and ever since then, their ‘deal’ of sorts had been struck: Louis helps Harry rehearse. And, in return, Harry brings him green carnations. Louis’ begun to collect them in his flat, leaving them on his windowsill where they crumble over time, dead petals scattering at the merest brush of wind. He doesn’t mind though, doesn’t pick them up from where they crunch underfoot. Harry calls him a bit mad as he laughs with bright eyes and inspects the various messes they create. Louis just shrugs, helpless to himself.

He cherishes everything Harry gives him—especially his attention. Especially moments like these. When they’re alone.

The smile on his face must show his thoughts because now Harry’s blinking at him, hands slowly lowering from where they’d been sweeping the air with artistic vision.

“Are you even listening to me?” he asks, though his tone is amused.

Beaming, Louis shakes his head unapologetically. “No, sir.”

Surprised, Harry laughs, shaking his head to himself as he takes small steps forward, eying Louis with mock-disappointment. “And here I thought we’d struck a deal. We were doing so well these past weeks…” Dramatically, he sighs, eyes falling downcast, forlorn. Louis bites back a smile. “I’ve even brought you flowers and everything… But, alas. I should’ve known I wasn’t enough to hold your attentions.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” Louis replies just as seriously, hands neatly folded over the booklet in his lap. “It’s the most valuable thing I have, my attention. Can’t part with it very easily, I’m afraid.”

Again, Harry laughs, but it’s a low chuckle, just a bumblebee of sound that flits about the air. “Perhaps there is still something I could offer for it. I am very rich, you know.”

“I do know,” Louis nods, feeling a pleased sort of hum as Harry steps closer to him. He’s so lean and tall, the length of his body relaxed in a way that Louis has grown so accustomed to nowadays. Just the way Harry stands is familiar, comforting. “But money means very little to me.”

“Are the flowers not enough?”

One corner of his lip quirking, Louis looks sidelong to the small cluster of green carnations beside him, nestled in the polished glass of their vase. There’s a black velvet ribbon around the neck; it reminds him of Harry.

“They are truly lovely,” Louis comments delicately, reaching out to touch. He smirks before sliding his gaze back to Harry, who looks expectant and caught, eyes glued to Louis’ face with such an intensity that it kicks something up in his stomach, makes him want to move his legs and shake out the jitters. He shifts, watches as he takes another step closer. “But perhaps not quite enough.”

Again, Harry steps closer, toting his sweet, lopsided smile and the messy hair that always frames his face. From this distance, Louis can see the few freckles that dot his skin, the spare errant hairs. It’s another thing that’s developed slowly between them—Harry’s casual display of physical affection. He likes to stand close, be close, reaching out warm hands and playful fingers and it’s nothing like Louis’ ever experienced before. He’s not used to friendships like these.

He loves it, though. Finds himself drawn to it.

“What could I offer you, my little Swallow?” Harry then asks, walking and walking until Louis’ knees bump against his thighs. He watches as Harry smiles, soft and lost and lit-up halfway by oil lamps, hands coming to bracket Louis on the vanity. The warm apricot of his skin shines brightly against the scratched mahogany and Louis swallows as he admires it, feeling the barely-there touch of the corner of Harry’s thumb brushing against his leg. Hands so close.

It’s friendship, he tells himself because it seems important to say. It’s friendship and this is normal.

He lets his smile remain as he looks up into Harry’s eyes, finding them softer than before, lidded. Watching Louis.

Liam’s never like this with him.

Again, Louis swallows, smile warbling. “Just your happy self, Prince,” Louis replies softly, looking back down at the script because he knows the feeling inside of his stomach, knows the reason his hands are beginning to shake. He knows, alright, he bloody well knows and it’s never been an issue but with Harry, when Harry looks at him like this, when he’s close enough to smell and see and feel…

It’s too close to an impossibility that Louis wishes so dearly was possible.

Harry’s an actor. Louis’ just a valet.

His smile fades as he grips the script tighter, paper crinkling. Harry’s eyes dig into him but he doesn’t look up, just clears his throat instead. “Next line?” he offers, unsteady.

There’s a moment’s pause before Harry finally speaks, voice quiet and woolen. “Will you read it to me?” he asks. In his peripherals, Louis sees his fingers press tighter into the vanity, fingertips white.

Very aware of his knees still pressing into Harry’s body, he nods, clearing his throat. “I am not a man, I am a prince,” he reads, voice scratchy as he pretends not to feel Harry’s gaze, Harry’s hands. Just keeps pretending. “And in this, I am bereft of my humanity.” His breath catches the moment he feels Harry’s hand slide closer, thumb pressed firmly against his leg. But he pretends and he continues, a touch louder. “I am but the crown I wear. My hands are not meant for work, only jewels. And they weigh heavily as I pray, always weighed down…” He drifts as the words stare back at him, feeling Harry’s proximity with each thud of his heartbeat.

He knows that, were he to look up, they would brush mouths.

And he doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to indulge the spark of electricity in his body at the mere thought because it’s impossible, it’s Harry, nothing is as it seems. Never could it be…

It’s just an impossibility. In every manner.

Still though, he finds himself about to look up, dizzied by Harry’s aroma, by the way the room has gone so silent, by the way Harry’s hand has begun to lift off the wood with such weighted hesitancy yet purpose that it has Louis questioning things, it has him wondering, daring to—

“Oi!” a voice suddenly shouts, Irish and stern.

Like bolts of lightning, they part, Louis dropping the script out of his hands as Harry stumbles back, eyes wide. His lips are parted in breath, chest heaving ridiculously, and it’s all so much, all so bloody startling and confusing, that Louis can’t help but stare at him with eyes that he hopes to be soothing, reassuring. Everything feels cold without Harry there.

“Harry blooding Styles, you better get your arse on my stage in two bloody minutes, you hairy GIT. You’re twenty minutes late and we have a bloody show that’s in less than three bloody goddamn months. Get your arse out here _now.”_

If possible, Harry’s eyes widen even more as they both turn to look at the door, startled. From the other side, they can hear shuffling, angry mutters and boots scuffing floorboards, curses hissed back and forth.

And then suddenly the door is bursting open, revealing not Niall, but Zayn and his askew trilby, a dwindling cigarette between his lips, patchwork jacket hanging off his shoulders. His scruff suggests he hasn’t shaved today, eyes dark with exhaustion and irritation. “Niall’s too polite to invite himself inside but I’m not,” he says without greeting. “Get the fuck onstage. And Louis—stop distracting my actors,” he suddenly accuses, pointing a long finger in Louis’ direction, steely eyes narrowed. “And don’t feed me any of your shite. Just. Get. On. Stage.” And with that, the door slams shut.

After about five seconds of silence, Louis laughs, looking back to find Harry already staring at him, a small grin on his face.

“And you say you enjoy working here?” Louis chuckles, one eyebrow raised.

“All too much.”

A brief moment of time lapses between them then, just a small pulsating second of them looking at each other with small smiles that unsettle the air.

“Best get going,” Louis eventually says, quiet and softer than he’s meant to sound.

“Best.”

And then Harry’s tall figure slopes out the door with one last smile-bumped glance, leaving Louis behind with his own smile.

**

“If I have to hear the name ‘Harry Styles’ one more bloody time, I may genuinely will myself to unconsciousness.”

Snorting, Louis rolls his eyes as he hangs Harry’s various costumes (freshly delivered from a very tired but pleased Caroline), carefully smoothing over the fabric on the thin wire hangers. “Do I smell a bit of jealousy, Liam?” he throws over his shoulder, barely holding back a snort. Liam’s always been a little insecure, easily threatened by the presence of others.

In response, Liam genuinely scoffs, pressing off the wall he’d been leaning on mopily, hands in the pockets of his pressed blue trousers. “Hardly,” he clips, tone just a bit too exaggerated to hold any merit. “I’m just sick of hearing about him, is all.”

“From who?” Louis challenges, turning to deliver him a look which Liam steadily ignores, instead focusing on his nails and his pout.

Only after a brief pause does Liam speak. “Sophia,” he mutters, the sound almost lost in his frowning lips.

Louis blinks. “Sophia?” he repeats, eyebrow rising. “Why is Sophia going on about Harry?”

Shrugging, Liam drops his hand, sighing as he looks anywhere but Louis. “Fancies him, I think,” he mutters grumpily. “Can’t imagine why, though. He looks like a blasted lion with all that hair and he’s an actor, Louis. An _actor_. Hardly an honorable rank in society.”

“And she’s an _actress_ , Liam,” Louis reminds not-so-politely, crossing his arms over his chest and ignoring the odd twinge that’s suddenly arisen there. Surely, it’s nothing. “Perhaps you’ve no room to judge? Considering you think the world of her.”

“I do, I do think the world of her! I love her, Louis!” he declares in a small outburst and Louis can only roll his eyes. “But she’s not meant for Harry, she’s meant for _me_.”

It’s all very childish and petulant, something that would normally prompt Louis to just leave the room because Liam sometimes has a strop, sometimes suffers at the hand of his own privilege, and it’s so out of Louis’ depth and understanding that he typically ignores such behavior. No need to cater to the spoilt child.

However, there’s just something…something lingering in Liam’s stare, in Liam’s words, and Louis’ own ribs that has him staying in place, eying the man before him rather carefully.

“While I can’t deny that I agree with you,” Louis begins slowly, calculating his words, “I absolutely refuse to entertain this abysmal attitude of yours, Liam. You’re worrying for nothing,” he assures, but he watches Liam’s micro-expressions, the way his lips tug into a constant frown.  But it’s  fine, surely Liam’s fears are unfounded. Louis knows it’s fine. “I’ve not heard talk of the two and Harry never speaks of her; never has he mentioned her in my presence. Not once after all this time, never in all the days spent in his company. So rest assured, mate—I can’t imagine you’ve anything to worry about at all.”

“Well. I’m not so sure,” Liam mumbles low after a moment, fiddling with a stray fountain pen on the desk. He’s still pouting. Blast. “Why, just today she mentioned that she wishes to make an appearance with him. An _appearance_ , Louis!”

Oh, Jesus. Liam really is just overreacting, isn’t he?

Feeling an infinitesimal blip of relief pass through his system, Louis sighs as he drops his arms to his sides, walking up to Liam and placing a heavy hand upon his shoulder with all the forced non-exasperation he can muster. “I highly doubt it’ll happen, mate,” he reassures in a steady voice, meeting his soft brown eyes. His fingers dig into the crisp fabric of his jacket, securing him in place.

And for a second it looks as though Liam will protest. But then a small flicker of hope blossoms on his face and he stares at Louis with wide eyes, looking impossibly young and foolish. “Really?” he all but whispers, shoulders sagging.

Louis has to resist a chuckle, squeezing his shoulder before dropping his hand. “Really,” he nods, smiling. It feels lighter. “Don’t fret so much, you’re bound to give yourself a stroke one of these days.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Liam half-laughs, unsure, air infused into the words.

“Ay, mate—I’m always right,” Louis can’t help but wink, and Liam can only snort, the smallest smile tugging on his pouting mouth.

**

Things aren’t going so smoothly.

“Can you please try to speak a little quieter?” Zayn sort of shrieks at Miss Smith, standing so close to the stage that he’s all but resting his wiry, twitching arms upon it, eyes blazen with unkempt frustrations and short fuses. Wildly, he turns to seek Niall—who’s sat in the audience, feet kicked up, fingers tugging at his pursed lips with a firm look of concentration—and gestures back at her frantically. “Is there something we can do?” he presses, voice raising yet another octave. “Tell me, is there something we can _do?!”_

Before Niall can answer, Miss Smith glowers, tossing her script onto the stage floor with a heavy flick of her thin wrist. “I _have_ been speaking quieter,” she grits, frustrated, delicate brow bunched tight. “I don’t understand what you _want_ from me!”

The sheer volume of her voice and glare has Louis swallow, eyes flicking from person to person as he stands in the distance, watching the absolute shit-show occurring onstage. Yet again.

Frowning, Harry then reaches out a careful hand to her, gently resting it upon her forearm, his movement delicate and swift. “Perhaps it’s your tone, Sophia,” he begins gently, a question lingering beneath his words. He locks into her eyes, focused and smooth, and she quiets then, softening momentarily at his purred velvet sentences. Harry has the most soothing voice in the world. “If you just allow your lines to ooze out of your mouth rather than force them—“

“She sounds like a bloody street cat! I’ve half a mind to make her write her bloody lines on cue cards, just to keep her trap shut so she doesn’t bloody ruin _my_ play!” Zayn suddenly interjects, shrilly, before Harry can even finish, to which Niall sends him a glare, Liam makes a bird-like sound of protest, and Louis frowns. Sometimes Zayn gets unprofessional in his madness.

And, naturally, everyone jumps on it quick.

As one, the room collectively bursts.

“Now, Zayn, that’s out of line. How _dare_ you compare Sophia to a _street cat_ —“

“Malik, that’s _enough_ —“

“What did you just say to me?!”

“Zayn, please—“

“Where would we even find cue cards??”

“She’s not even that bad anymore!”

“Sod off!”

As the bickering amplifies, Louis slowly makes his way to Niall, frown etched harshly on his face as he watches the scene unfold before him, fingers steepled. “Oi,” he mutters, sidling up to the seat beside him, the springs groaning with his weight. “Is he alright?” He nods his head to where Zayn’s currently jabbing at the air with his pointer-finger, vein bulging in his neck.

Lips pursed, Niall shakes his head, cigarette smoke still lingering in the air around him in thick swirls and tides, whiskey uncapped beside him. His hair’s a tangled mess of jet-black and white-blond, the bridge of his nose pinkened from pinching it. “No,” he grunts, firm and short. His blue eyes look dark, lost in the dim light of the theater.

Shifting, Louis clears his throat. “Should we, er….” he drifts, vaguely gesturing with his hand as he tries (and fails) to catch Niall’s eye and convey his meaning. Because it’s times like this when Louis knows exactly what to do to alleviate some of the tension, some of the utter chaos of high-stress and unrealistic demands. Especially in regards to Zayn Malik.

For a moment, Niall doesn’t respond, just stares ahead at the unfolding chaos before him—at Harry’s soothing tones that are constantly interrupted, Miss Smith’s increasingly irate shrieks, at Zayn’s even more irate shrieks—and then sighs, rubbing hands roughly over his face, mottling his skin and further mussing up his already unsavable hair. “Yeah,” he eventually relents, tone a mix of frustration and worry. “Yeah, best herd the lot out. He needs to calm down before he hurts himself.”

No sooner are the words out of his mouth when Zayn’s voice suddenly splits the air—“I am NOT being irrational! I made the bloody script and I can set fire to it if I damn well please, Smith, so help me GOD.”

Silence. Louis and Niall exchange a glance.

“Or Miss Smith. Best get going before he finds a blunt object,” Louis mutters in an undertone but he’s already getting up, snapping his fingers and cupping hands over his mouth as he makes his way to the fray. “OI!” he shouts as loudly as he can, voice carrying across the hall and echoing off the vaulted ceiling, dust scattering from the rafters.

Instantly, everyone stills, all eyes on him. Silent.

Good.

“EVERYONE. OUT. NOW,” Louis bellows, adopting as stern a tone as he can. The words resonate in the air.

For a moment, everyone continues to just stare, looking the same, if just a tad more perplexed; nobody moves.

Rolling his eyes, Louis re-cups his hands, longsuffering. “I MEAN IT—EVERYONE EXCEPT ZAYN MALIK AND NIALL HORAN—EVACUATE THE ROOM. TAKE A BREATHER, TAKE A BREAK—SCATTER!”

It takes all of six seconds for everybody to start moving, confusion marring their faces as they fumble out to the corridor, Miss Smith’s cheeks still flushed with anger, Liam trailing behind her at a truly impressive pace and calling her name.

It’s just as Harry’s about to flit outside with the rest of them that Louis’ fingers clasp at his sleeve.

“Oi,” he whispers, grin on his face.

Harry’s expression smoothes over when their eyes lock, brow quirking in a silent question.

“Come with me,” Louis whispers, eyes bright, without preamble or explanation.

He wonders if Harry will just follow him blindly. But he also sort of knows the answer.

And, true to his suspicions, Harry spins on his heel and follows Louis without another word, a secret smile on his face as his eyes light up like shooting stars, the youth in his face highlighted. Together, they amble through the crowd, flitting between bodies and bumping shoulders as Louis keeps a discreet hold on Harry’s sleeve, tugging and tugging as they duck out of sight and twist and turn in the darkness backstage. Deftly, they maneuver over coiled ropes on the ground, dusty patches of worn wood, little bits of spare cloth, and scattered tools, and the entire time, Harry is right behind Louis, allowing himself to be led without question, his presence as palpable as the breath Louis swears he feels brushing the softest part of the back of his neck.

A laugh wants to punch out of Louis’ chest for no other reason than just because. Just because Harry makes his body alight, like a shock of electricity, and the energy wants to ooze out of him any way it can. He smiles to himself, biting his lip as he hears Harry fumble in the darkness, hears a small chortle, and feels Harry’s hand briefly grasp at his back to steady himself. The presence of his hand lingers.  

When at last they reach Louis’ destination—the farthest corner of backstage—hidden behind the heavy crimson curtains weighed down with dust and time, everybody has officially evacuated the hall, leaving silence and just the two lone figures in their wake below, stood down amongst the countless rows of red velvet chairs. Quietly, they approach each other, unaware of Louis and Harry’s presence.

Without word, Louis turns to Harry from their spot backstage, bringing his forefinger to his lips. “Shh,” he whispers, barely louder than a breath. They’re close enough for their shoulders to brush, for Harry’s eyes to reveal flecks of green-gold. His eyelashes look soft as petals, as sharp as thorns. He’s a rose, an English rose, and Louis fears, should he touch him, his flesh would be pierced.

He’s not sure he would mind.

Harry tracks the motion of Louis’ lips before nodding, smile quivering on the edge of his mouth as they press closer, Louis indicating silently to the empty hall where Zayn and Niall stand.  

“They do this every once in awhile,” Louis whispers in explanation, leaning in to drift the words down Harry’s ear as they peek past the curtain, shoulder to shoulder. Warmth transfers between them as they watch the pair before them, the lilt of Niall’s voice softly carrying through the quiet hall. Words too far to distinguish.

Slowly, Zayn’s coiled posture unravels as Niall’s hand travels to his shoulder, resting on it softly before giving it a squeeze. Their voices mingle, low, indecipherable, as Niall steps still closer, forehead coming to rest against Zayn’s. Together, they fall silent, gently beginning to sway on the spot.

It’s calming and soothing and so remarkably soft that Louis can’t help but stare in fascination; he always loves watching these moments between them. Watching a love that he understands, that pulls on his innards. A brief window that reveals something that just feels _right_. It’s simpler in the silence, in the muted glow of the hall.

“What are they doing?” Harry whispers into the shell of Louis’ ear, words curled and taking up residence. Like Louis, he sounds in awe, intrigue coloring his tone.

Louis swallows, throat dry at Harry’s proximity, at Harry’s lips that almost brush his skin, focusing instead on the scene before him. “Dancing,” is all he gives, simple as the puffs of air leaving Harry’s mouth, and no more is said as they continue to watch side by side.

Without preamble, Niall raises his hands, entwined with Zayn’s, lifting them into place as they continue to sway in a waltz, eyes closed. Just barely can Louis decipher the soothing melody of Niall’s mutterings, lulling Zayn’s shoulders into easiness as they begin to move in time to music only they can hear, Harry’s breath still tickling Louis’ skin. For a moment he’s lost in it, lost in the feeling and lost in watching the scene before him, Harry’s body warm beside him and making the air around them sweeter.

And then suddenly he feels Harry shift, his proximity suddenly even closer, and he turns his head immediately, nearly bumping into Harry’s face with the tip of his nose.

He finds Harry already staring at him.

It shouldn’t be quite as substantial a feeling as it is, the air whooshing from his lungs as his eyes remain locked in Harry’s, their intensity and focus rippling waves through him. It’s jarring, it’s exhilarating, and they’re almost nose to nose they’re so close, everything around them silent and suspended, save for the two figures slowly dancing as one down below amongst the empty seats, stage lights dim, their fingers entwining in their own choreography.

The air feels thick. Everything feels suddenly soupy, Louis’ limbs heavy as Harry’s eyes fall to his lips, startling a silent exhale from him because Harry is looking at his _mouth_ , he _is,_ and Louis suddenly can’t even think straight because something that seemed so impossible is suddenly in sight and—

Niall’s laugh startles through the air, immediately jarring Louis’ eyes away, jerking Harry back like a string were tugged around his limbs, eyes widening.

Shit. Blast. Fuck.

Louis breathes, heart jack-rabbiting as Niall and Zayn’s voices begin to drift a bit louder, their silent swaying transitioning into gentle banter and soft laughs, all the while as Louis tries to ignore the heartbeat in his ears, tries to ignore the way Harry’s straightening his body and taking two steps back, hands noticeably shaking.

“I should go,” he says, voice off-kilter and questioning, and Louis just swallows, finding himself nodding as he tries to collect his thoughts, scattered like marbles.

“Yeah, they’ll probably be ready to reconvene soon,” Louis manages as he tries to catch Harry’s eyes, which have now grown wild, unsure. Without thought, he reaches out a gentle hand to place on Harry’s forearm, just as he turns to leave, and the contact feels warm, solid, somehow reassuring amidst the confusion and disturbance in the air. “Hey,” he begins gently, Harry’s eyes flashing to him. There’s a poignant pause of just their eyes locked into each other’s, reading one another. Searching. “Good luck out there,” Louis whispers eventually, voice rougher than it had been. He clears his throat, tries to even out the syllables. “I’ll see you in your room later?”

“Yes,” Harry nods, seeming a bit dazed. His eyes look unfocused, dark, and for a moment he appears imploring, leaning closer as if he’s changed his mind, as if he’s going to stay. Magnetically pulled to Louis.

But then he takes a step back, composure resettling over him, and he departs, his presence still lingering.

**

The stage is utter chaos, as it has been for the past handful of weeks. Between Caroline chasing actors around with a nearly frantic expression, thrusting unfinished costumes in their faces—“Edward, please, just _please_ put on your hat”—and Zayn storming up to the nearest body and standing uncomfortably close, barking orders and incoherent ramblings directly in their faces while Niall stands amongst it all like a king, legs planted in the ground, Louis can only watch the madness unfold with an invigorated sort of glee in his chest, fingers itching where they rest in his lap, eager to jump in and joy the fray. He’s always enjoyed chaos, the buzz of activity and energy that he forces to lay dormant inside of himself on the sidelines. This is his favorite part of the theater—mid-production.

But even through all madness and fervor, there remains Harry, bold and untouched with a furrowed brow as he calmly waits for instruction between sets, lip caught in his teeth, his smile always secretly flashed to Louis from across the great expanse.

And Louis can’t take his eyes off of him.

He’s so beautiful. So calm, so in control. So smooth where he stands, a fixed calm amongst the tornado around him. Magnetic. Soft. Utterly lovely.

Louis can’t stop thinking about him. About the way his eyes looked when he was so close that Louis could all but taste his skin. When his curls brushed softly against Louis’ shoulder. When he leaned forward, eyes fixed on Louis’ mouth, and the entire blasted world suddenly stopped and waited with baited breath…

It was as if he were about to kiss Louis. And perhaps not for the first time.

Is it possible? Could it be possible? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if he’s just over-magnifying everything or just projecting or even misreading? But he does know it’s unheard of—it’s a world so  far away from his own that just _thinking_ about it leaves his head dizzy, upturned, and his insides squished together.

In no way would Louis ever, ever be able to have Harry. Not in the way he very secretly, desperately, wants. In no way would it be acceptable, plausible. And the mere idea of Harry wanting him back? He inhales sharply at the very thought, the notion punching a breath out of him because it’s bloody impossible, it couldn’t be, it could never… It could never.

But, oh. How he bloody wishes it could be.

His lip catches in his teeth as a secret smile spreads across his face. Beside him, Niall sighs from deep within, mussing up his hair as he drops his worn script on the floor, shaking his head and turning on his heel.

“Dismissed for the day,” he calls, somewhere between defeated and begrudging. It’s his usual tone of voice so Louis only chuckles, shaking his head as his eyes immediately flit through the swarm of tired-looking bodies to Harry, who stands there with shadowy eyes as he yawns, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. Miss Smith is beside him, chatting away as she stares at him adoringly, her brown eyes bright with amber as he nods and smiles with genuine interest. It’s a kind sight—Louis knows Harry finds the girl to be sweet. Though, it seems as Liam had said, Miss Smith may have a slightly less platonic opinion of him.

It unearths a small lump of something in Louis’ stomach but he ignores it; there’s no reason to fret over something so insubstantial. It’s nothing. Obviously never going to happen. Harry tells him everything and not once has he ever shown any interest in the girl other than the friendly sort. He never speaks of her, never makes to spend time with her. Rather, he’s always by Louis’ side, always speaking of Louis…

Slowly, the lump lessens, leaving only room for the warm puff of air that fills his chest when Harry finally politely excuses himself, eyes finding Louis’.

“Dressing room?” he mouths from across the way, lips red and catching the lights. They look like ribbon, soft to the touch. Louis imagines the pads of his fingers swiping across them, if only just for a moment.

He nods, bubbles in his throat as he moves immediately, foregoing a farewell to everyone for a head start to the dressing room; he can’t deny that he’s anxious, nearly terrified to be in Harry’s presence again. Alone.

Will Harry be stiff? Awkward? Much the same? Will he reveal…anything? Is there anything to be revealed? Does Louis want that?

Questions assault him as he makes his way up the stage, through the back. Footsteps creaking on wooden floorboards. Tired shoes scuffing. His braces dig into his shoulders and his eyes are tired from the day but his heart pumps red hot blood through his body and he swears he can taste it, feel it, as he comes closer to the dressing room, questions behind his eyes, Harry’s scent lingering in his nostrils.

Will it be the same? Will it all change? What does Louis want?

What does Harry want?

His very name leaves shocks in Louis’ palms.

When he presses the door open, Harry’s inside, standing patiently with his hands linked in front, smile perched on his lips. He looks sweet and calm, eyes lidded. “Little Swallow,” he greets, a touch playful.

Louis swallows as he closes the door, his heart rocketing up to his mouth. It feels more. It feels like _more_ to be around Harry and he doesn’t know why but there are atoms whizzing around inside of him and his eyes can’t stray from Harry’s ribbon lips and the room is warm and gold-dipped, flickering gas lamps and candles creating shadows, and Louis is sure the velvet of Harry’s ribbon tie would be as soft to the touch as his curls.

He can’t bloody think straight. Something’s wrong with him.

“My Prince,” he greets back, voice sounding alien to him. He breathes, steady, a bundle of nerves, smile slow to form as he approaches Harry, foot after foot.  

It feels like a defining moment.

Harry watches him, looking down on him with what could only be described as affection. “Hello,” he greets in a murmur, the moment Louis reaches him. Almost toe-to-toe. Eye to eye.

Louis nods, throat bobbing. “Hi, sir.” He can feel his smile widening for no foreseeable reason but Harry’s does too, eyes skirting across Louis’ face as he just stands there. They regard each other for a moment before Louis reaches out electric hands, careful to remove Harry’s buttons.

Focus, Louis, focus. Business as usual. Everything’s normal, everything’s fine.

He smiles to himself as he feels Harry’s eyes on him, watching and patient as Louis performs his duties. Harry’s pliant beneath his touch, extending his arms without prompt.

“Did you have a nice day? Good rehearsal? Save for the war that’s currently taking place, that is,” Louis remarks, oxygen returning to his brain. The scene is so familiar, so calm and normal that his anxieties dissipate slowly, the feeling returning to his fingers. He crouches to remove Harry’s shoes, one by one, pulling the laces loose.

Harry chuckles above him. “The war of Smith versus Malik? I’m afraid the world will end, Louis.”

“No doubt, it will,” Louis muses, flashing up a small smile. “And Zayn won’t just take Miss Smith down—he’ll self-destruct as well, take everyone in his wake. Such are the artist types, you know. Can’t be trusted.”

“Oh?” Harry questions, eyebrow rising. He smirks, words slow and playful. “And what about those actors? Can they be trusted?”

Biting back a smile, Louis shakes his head, careful to slide on Harry’s other pair of shoes—the traveling ones with the engraved leather on the toe. “No, they’re even worse, don’t you know? Surely you’ve heard what they say about actors.” He grins, letting exaggeration overcome his tone as he gently maneuvers Harry’s foot, fingers wrapped delicately around his ankle. “A sordid bunch. Unreliable. _Scandalous._ ” Lacing up the shoe, his knuckles brushing leather. “Disreputable. Their reputations are _terrible_ , they are all but poison to high society. No, Harry, I’m afraid actors are the very worst of them all.” Shoes sufficiently tied, he slowly rises, meeting Harry’s gaze as the latter settles a balancing hand on Louis’ shoulder, careful and soft. Their eyes lock, features relaxed. Teasing. “And yet, for some odd reason, we choose to be in their company.”

“Why?” Harry asks, soft.

“Because,” Louis replies instantly. “They reel us in. We’re powerless to stop them.”

Surprised, Harry laughs, breaking up his smirking composure and rippling banners through the air. A beautiful sound.  “How so? I’ve never seen such a thing.”

Smiling, Louis brushes past him, coat in hand. He makes quick work of hanging the garment, aware of Harry’s attention, of the silence in the room. “They’re actors, Harry. They manipulate the world like they manipulate their lines. They’re all but magicians, you know. Warlocks, even. We’re all under their spell and they’re deplorable, every single one of them, but you know what? We just can’t seem to stay away. Get sucked into the tide. ‘Tis a happy death though, I’m sure.”

He turns around then, only to find the mood of the room rather altered suddenly.

“Hm. You make the profession sound so powerful,” Harry mutters, expression quieting. His eyes fall downward, caught somewhere on the ground. “But, in truth, it in itself is very powerless.”

Frowning, Louis takes a step closer, tilting his head to study Harry’s face which has now suddenly grown so sad, the playfulness in the air gone. “Powerless?” he repeats, surprised. “What makes you say that? That’s a rather strong claim, Harry.”

“It is,” Harry agrees and he sounds so weary, so tired. Lips pressed together, he turns around, back now facing Louis, and it feels colder now, lonelier. Louis’ eyebrows bunch together, confused. “It’s just… There are things, Louis. As much as I love all of this, love what I do, there are things that accompany the profession that are very difficult sometimes. Now more than ever.”

“What kind of things?” Louis presses slowly as he takes another step forward, resisting the urge to reach out a hand, splay it across the wings of Harry’s back.

Harry sighs, a drawn out sound. “Responsibilities. Obligations. Contracts. Louis…” He turns around then, eyes impossibly unsure, sad, and tumultuous as they fix on Louis, taking in his face with something akin to wistfulness. “Sometimes I have to do things that I don’t want to do.”

It sounds ominous and final, like a warning, and Louis’ brows only furrow further, a twist in his gut.

“But don’t we all? Isn’t that life? I don’t understand…” he says slowly, unsure how to proceed or what questions to ask.

But Harry merely shakes his head, looking away with lines of exhaustion marring his face. “I’ll explain later.”

“Tonight?” Louis prompts, voice lifted and hopeful. “Will you come over tonight?”

Harry’s eyes slide back to him, quiet and watchful before he nods once, smile breaking through. “I will,” he says, looking soft again, as simply as that. “If you’ll have me.”

“Always,” Louis assures, feeling odd and almost desperate to comfort him despite not knowing why.

And the way Harry looks at Louis in response vanishes any tension in the air, makes it all worth it, makes it a bit clearer.

**

When Louis leaves the theater that night, he trots past a glum looking Liam, a skip in his step.

“Bye, mate!” he calls, waving enthusiastically in hopes to dislodge his frown.

But Liam just nods distractedly in his direction, making no sound, no further movement.

And normally Louis would stop, pester him until he reveals what’s troubling him, but he’s tired and he’s cold and he want to go home, wants to wait for Harry and see his blasted smile and hear his bloody laugh and sit beside him as they read and talk in low voices and pass a single cup of tea back and forth, asking each other questions as they brush hands.

He wants to know if Harry’s alright, if they‘re still alright… He wants to know what everything means.

So he sends one last reassuring smile to Liam before continuing on his way, the soles of his heels light.

**

Harry’s late.

Louis tries not to think about it as he rereads the same page in his book for the thirteenth time. But Harry’s late.

He glances outside at the stars and wonders if he’s imagining the way they look back at him anxiously.

**

He still isn’t here.

The flat is silent and the wind creaks the walls and unsettles the dead carnations on the windowsill and Louis’ feet are cold and his tea is untouched and his book is still on page fifty-seven and Harry still isn’t here.

He bites his lip between his teeth as he shoves fingers through the messy strands of his hair.

It’s alright. It’s fine. It’s normal.

Nothing’s changed. He’ll come.

**

It’s only when the moon has almost fully arched across the sky that Louis realizes Harry’s not coming.

He blows out his last candle and crawls into his bed, pulling his worn blankets tight around his body as he closes his eyes, trying not to think that everything has, indeed, somehow changed after all.

**

It’s dreary and simply awful when Louis walks to the theater the next day, the weather reflecting his mood. His eyes are weighted with exhaustion, his hands cold and clammy, feet trudging along the muddy streets. He glances up at the murky white sky, laden with moisture and pollution, and he frowns. Doesn’t know what he was expecting.

“Louis!” he hears upon entering the theater, footsteps quickly approaching him.

He turns around with pulled eyebrows, finding Liam speed-walking towards him with a newspaper in his hand, furrow in his brow. “Good morning?” Louis offers slowly, eyeing the paper.

Liam looks distraught, his combed hair a little mussed, dapper suit ruffled. The lines of his face are pinched, his knuckles white where they clench. “I was bloody right,” is all he says, voice low and despairing, a storm in his vowels.

Raising his eyebrows, Louis blinks at him once, twice. “About…?” he prompts, feeling a touch too surly for guessing games.

“This,” Liam glowers, punctuating the word with the newspaper as he shoves it under Louis’ nose. “Have you seen it? I told you—I bloody well told you. There _is_ something to worry about. I just bloody knew it…”

Nonplussed, Louis takes the paper in his own hands, squinting his eyes to read the small print as he focuses his attention to the smudged words.

_‘Actor Harry Styles attends dinner with actress Sophia Smith. Onlookers claimed they remained close throughout the night, creating a spectacle for all to see. Both are starring in Zayn Malik’s newest play…’_

“Last night,” Liam explains, heavy and pouting, as Louis stares at the words before him.  Liam’s sentences are a rush, spilling over each other and releasing like a volcano after being compressed inside too long. “They went to Lady Rosmund’s soiree, just like I knew they would. It says they were there all bloody night! He’s courting her, Louis, he’s bloody _courting_ her! Just like I suspected!”

But all Louis can do is stare at the black printed words in front of him, next to a caricature of Harry holding a sunflower, a giant bow tied around his neck. The words are bolded, thick with ink, clenched tight in Louis’ hands as they brand themselves to his memory, little incisions in his brain.

_Harry Styles and Sophia Smith_

_Remained close throughout the night_

_Creating a spectacle for all to see_

It feels like an invisible punch is delivered to Louis’ gut as Liam continues to rant endlessly, Louis’ heart taking residence in the floor below.

Well, then. Things really have changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I will be back to updating more frequently now that the holidays are over. Bless! 
> 
> Also, next chapter... Things will smooth out. A lot. ;)


	10. IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry misses Louis. Louis misses Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This? Might be garbage. And I apologize.

It makes sense.

That’s what Louis realizes as he sits atop the balcony, away from view, leaning back against the wall and staring at the dark corners, watching dust drift like snowflakes in the grey light that softly pours from the crevices of windows above. It swirls, chases each other—like his thoughts, really. His blasted little thoughts that are currently swirling around his brain like bloody dust particles as he sits there, hands cold, and bloody thinks.

It makes sense that Harry’d be with Sophia. It makes sense that he’d choose lavish dinner parties and fame over a dull, uneventful night with Louis in a shit flat that creaks with the wind, that fits hardly more than a bed, that smells of mildew and has a floor littered with dust and dried flower petals. It makes all the sense in the bloody world and the realization cracks over Louis’ head like an egg, dripping down his neck and trailing down to his toes.

It was all foolish—every last bit of it. His fanciful affections, his friendship with the actor, his hopes, his very quiet yearnings that he dared to entertain like the fool he is…

An exhale escapes his chapped lips as he rubs course fingers over his eyes, vision blurring with the movement. Chandeliers smudge into ornate moldings, into red velvet curtains and chipped paintings of cherubs. The theater blends together and it feels like it’s being sucked down a drain or summat, everything just being deconstructed and warped because suddenly Valet Louis Tomlinson has realized that he will never, ever have a chance with Actor Harry Styles.

He clamps down on his lip harshly as he stands, refusing to succumb to the prickle in the very, very back of his eyes; he’s never been an overtly emotional person, never grieved for any of the unfortunate circumstances life has handed him. For Christ’s sake, he left his childhood home at a very young age without any hesitation in his boots and _yet,_ somehow, this man, this person, this _actor_ has reduced him to feeling fragments in his chest, where his heart used to be. This single human being has ravaged his brain. Even the theater seems tainted somehow; its once comforting walls, its familiarity and beauty that has always monopolized Louis’ daydreams, that has always smelt of home, suddenly reeks of Harry. Suddenly the man’s shadow speckles the walls, suddenly his laughter rumples the dust, suddenly his eyes gleam in the quietest, darkest corners and seep past Louis’ skin, imbedding themselves into his skeleton. Where this place was once a refuge, a dream, a home, an opportunity, it has now become an echo of just Harry.

Everything seems very cruel, indeed.

“Jesus, I’m pathetic,” Louis mumbles into his hands as he presses his face into them, feeling so bloody tired. Every muscle feels strained, his eyes aching in his skull, his hands cold and unsure. Everything’s twisted and knotted in his body. His intestines—are they supposed to feel like this? Or is this some medical affliction? He feels fucking ill, like he’s proper gone through the wringer, and it’s just…

His hands fall when he finally rises, staring down at the quiet stage below, watching as Zayn uncorks a brown glass bottle with no label and pours a generous amount of amber liquid into Niall’s teacup, their legs crossed and ankles brushing. He hears their low murmurs rumbling distantly as they nod and read through loose-leaf papers, cigarette smoke coiled in the air above. They’re alone, save for the stray crew member that flits past onstage and the echo of Caroline scolding someone about their costume. Just reading papers and sharing cigarettes, the occasional chuckle ruffling the atmosphere alongside shuffling paper.

Even from this distance, Louis can see the way they look at each other. Normally it would prompt a smile; now it makes something twinge in his lungs.

They’re in love, he thinks blankly. It’s oddly sobering and oddly heartbreaking and oddly hopeful and he doesn’t understand what he’s feeling.

So Louis just swallows before he finally walks away, feeling like a bloody fool.

**

“Harry’s been looking for you,” Niall says later, after he’s stumbled upon Louis near the back exit, sitting cross-legged amongst old wooden crates and spare, forgotten set pieces. It’s a spot he seeks very rarely—only when he wishes to be alone—and Niall has, unsurprisingly, been the only one to discover him there. Countless times.

Brilliant Irish bastard.

“Hm,” Louis responds noncommittally, staring down at the book in his hands. The first one Harry ever gave him. How pleasant.

“Says you weren’t in the dressing room this morning? Hasn’t seen you at all today? Think he’s a bit worried, to be honest.”

“Ah. That’s a silly thing for him to be.” Impassive, Louis turns the page.

Can’t Niall just go away? He’s having an existential crisis, thank you. Currently wondering if his life will always be meaningless, thank you. Currently fearing his own feelings for Harry and wondering if he’ll ever find tangible love at all—and what is love? What is that? Is Louis even capable of a love that he’s allowed to feel and act upon?

He’d love to answer these questions.

Sighing after a prolonged silence, Niall squats down, looking every bit the wise and patient arsehole that he is. Askew round glasses, firm jaw dotted with stubble, hair messy. His cap’s settled far back on his head, looking as if it’s about to slide off, but it’s endearing and young and Louis can’t help but reach out a hand to settle it on a bit firmer, refusing to budge a smile when Niall flashes him one, all warm and easy like certain parts of his soul. He looks tired today.

“What’s wrong, Louis?” he asks, gentle. Patient. This is the voice he usually gets whenever Zayn insists he’s dying. “You’re not yourself.”

“Don’t know what you mean,” Louis replies stubbornly, knowing full well what he means. His knuckles are white where they grip the book’s spine.

 “You know exactly what I mean,” Niall replies easily, never batting an eye because he sees all.

Louis frowns but remains silent, avoiding his eye.

“Something happen?” he prods and Louis sighs internally, thinking of all the things he could say but he _can’t_. Really just…can’t.

And it’s not because Niall would judge him for his feelings for Harry. Of course he wouldn’t, obviously he wouldn’t—on account of his relationship with Zayn and all. No, it’s rather because Harry works for Niall, because the latter is contractually obliged to remain unbiased and professional, and because knowing wouldn’t solve anything, would it?

Whatever affections Louis harbors for Harry Styles must be vanquished; and the fewer that know of these feelings, the better.

 “Nothing specific,” Louis replies at last, wondering if it’s possible to be vague enough not to lie. “Sometimes I just… Realize my station a bit, is all.”

At that, Niall’s eyebrows furrow. “Your station?” he repeats, taken by surprise. “What are you on about?”

Shrugging, Louis meets his eye blankly. “I just… I know I don’t have much of a future. Little room for opportunity. I don’t mind, of course, not always…” he drifts, voice sounding rather small. Rather unlike him. “But sometimes I wish to do more, you know?” He frowns, eyes falling. It’s not completely a lie. “Sometimes I get tired, Niall. Not mad, not even sad, maybe. Just…tired.”

For a moment, there’s just silence, the quiet thrum of voices punctuating the background. But then Niall nods steadily and something in his calm, pale face seems to just understand.

“I know,” is all he says, and it’s heavy enough for Louis to feel a little grateful somehow. He flashes a small smile.

“Thanks, mate,” he mumbles, ducking his head as he reassembles himself, plastering on a confident expression and relaxing his shoulders. “But, eh, I’ll be good. I just wanted some moments to myself today, you know? No worries to be had. Harry can rest assured.” The words taste odd on his tongue—blatant lies—but he can’t bring himself to speak any other way, especially in regards to Harry, so he meets Niall’s eye and exhales in relief when the man begins rising to his feet, ruffling a hand through Louis’ hair.  

“Good. Was almost beginning to worry about you,” Niall smiles wryly as he begins to retreat with a wink, ink stains marring his right arm and fingers. They look like leopard spots. “Oh, and don’t worry—I’ll keep him off your tail for awhile,” he calls back as he ambles away, soles of his brown shoes echoing. “Take your time here, Lou.”

“Thank you,” Louis calls back, a little faintly, before he frowns and returns to his book, somehow feeling even heavier.

**

The dressing room feels too small.

That’s all Louis can think as he stands there, waiting for Harry to arrive, waiting, waiting, waiting, as he drums fingers on his thighs, as he bites his lip into a blood-tinged mess, as he fusses with unkempt, greasy hair and worn suspenders that leave marks on his shoulders. Everything feels tense, his muscles rigid, and there’s this palpable, hanging air of anticipation in the room, thick like smoke.

It’s nearing the end of the day and yet, somehow, Louis feels even more dramatic and miserable than he had at the beginning.

He doesn’t know what he’ll say to Harry when he sees him, doesn’t know if he can even _talk_. It feels like a small, spiked pit has imbedded itself in his stomach and throat, something he can’t quite swallow past, and his mind, _god_ , his mind is fucking racing because Harry stood him up last night and Harry was with _Sophia_. Harry is courting Sophia.

Louis closes his eyes, willing his breath to even out.

Pathetic—he’s bloody pathetic. He should’ve known, shouldn’t be surprised that Harry’s gone and fallen for his leading lady. Because isn’t that his thing? Isn’t that what his reputation is? Louis was warned of this from the very start, they were all warned, and now rumor has come to reality and Louis can only bite his tongue and smile because he was bloody fucking _warned._ He should’ve known to expect this.

But then again…

He was never warned that he’d fall for him. Never warned that he’d lose himself to another.

And Harry…. Harry never even said a word about any of it. Not _one_ word. Never had he ever mentioned Sophia outside of a professional context and he tells Louis _everything_ , shares every thought and feeling, trusts only Louis with himself, with his work, with…well. Everything but his heart, it seem.

Bitter, bitter, bitter is the taste on Louis’ tongue.

It feels all too soon when the door finally opens, revealing creaking floorboards and a soft, tired looking Harry, curls dappling his shoulders in clean waves, purple swiped beneath his eyes, and limbs draped in ebony. Velvet and satin, tailored to his lovely body. He looks stunning, dark and tall and silent and utterly breathtaking and Louis feels his stomach already clenching at the mere sight of him, his hands balling into unconscious fists. Mantras shoot through his brain, delivering emotionless sentences and bullet-points of truth that repeat on a loop as he stands there, taking in the man before him. The man that stood him up, that left Louis behind, that, just yesterday, fooled Louis into believing he wanted to _kiss_ him. The same man that has, all this time, secretly pursued another, whose heart belongs to another: Sophia.

Louis was never more than a friend, a valet. Nothing more, never more.

It’s in tandem with his heart when his eyes fall to Harry’s right hand; he’s holding a bouquet of green carnations.

Another hot blip of foolishness streaks across Louis’ chest.

Neither of them greets the other for a moment, silence blanketed over the room like thick-spun wool as they stand across from each other in distance. Eyes locked into eyes. Louis can only procure a stiff nod as Harry’s eyes graze across his face in the most painfully familiar and intimate way, leaving little pricks in their wake because Louis’ fucking gone for this man, isn’t he? How could Louis have never realized how truly gone he was until after everything had already shattered? It took reality to enlighten him of his fantasy. How ironic.

Then, slowly, Harry shuts the door, eyes never leaving Louis. His lips tug into the barest hint of frown, one that could be swiped away with a thumb, as he speaks, gentle as a flickering flame.

“Louis,” he greets, the name so horribly beautiful from his lips. His eyes look sad. “You’re here.”

Silence.

He swallows, a gentle bob.

“I, er…I’d meant to give you these earlier.” Unsure, he motions to the beautiful bouquet in his hand before setting it upon a nearby chair, its pale green petals soft against the purple velvet cushion. When his hand retreats, it appears to shake a bit, just a fraction, but it’s enough to notice and Louis watches it, feeling rather hollow as his anger is replaced with confusion, with loneliness. With a dull ache that starts from his heart. “But you weren’t here,” Harry continues, tone odd. His voice sounds too loud for the room. “Where’ve you been?”

A pause; silence. Louis watches him, sad. Suddenly so sad.

Harry’s eyes reflect the emotion acutely, a flicker of desperation in them. “Are you alright? Louis?” he pushes, voice altered. “I must confess, I’ve missed you.”

“It’s been less than twenty-four hours since we last met, Harry,” Louis replies quietly, schooling his mannerisms into professionalism as he continues watching him, hands behind his back. He swallows, wishing to dislodge the cluster of emotion gathered in his throat. “Surely you can’t have missed me all that much.” He meets his eye heavily. “Especially when considering your absence last night. I’m afraid that was all your doing—not mine, sir.”

And there—there it is.

At the words, Harry’s expression falls, a twist in his frown as his gaze drops to the floor, guilty, hair coming to curtain his face. He looks the very portrait of a man in the wrong and it should make Louis feel triumphant, justified, perhaps even sated… But it only leaves him sadder, heavier. Guilty, even.

Without his permission, something in his chest tugs him to Harry, prompting his hands to fall openly at his sides as he takes a step closer, emotion suddenly splitting over him, bursting through the fine cracks in his composure.   

“Where were you last night?” he asks quietly, imploring. It’s almost gentle despite the sharp edge of bitterness.

And perhaps the tone startles Harry because suddenly he’s looking back into Louis’ eyes, his own wide and exposed, expression earnest as he, too, takes a step closer. “I’m sorry,” he says, low and sincere, but it’s not enough.

“Where were you?” Louis presses, firmer.

Again, Harry’s head drops. “I had…obligations,” he admits at last, sounding chastised. “I confess, I didn’t expect them to deter me from being in your company—“

“Cut the bullshit, Harry, please. I don’t need your starch-pressed manners, I need you to _talk_ to me,” Louis interjects, voice as blatantly frustrated as he feels. “Just…be honest. It doesn’t—it doesn’t really matter, alright? I’ve not got claim over your company or your person…” He drifts, trying to make sense of his white-hot emotions, of the foam in his brain, of the way Harry’s looking at him with such intense desperation and surprise. He shakes his head as he continues. “I just want to know why you didn’t show up, is all. Just a question. You’ve just—you’ve never done that before. I was worried—“

“My job, Louis—“ Harry begins, but Louis doesn’t want to hear him speak, doesn’t want to hear him talk of Sophia, and he panics, palms hot, and just keeps talking, voice louder. As if that’ll help, as if that’ll cushion him from the inevitable.

“It’s like we’re friends, yeah?” Louis continues, voice too harsh, too frustrated, too much, hands motioning through the air, helpless. “Proper friends. And it’s just… Sometimes it seems you’re keeping things from me. And I just don’t _get_ it. Do you feel like you can’t be honest? Do you feel—“

“I just don’t want you to _know,_ ” Harry interjects louder, his voice almost despairing as he stares at Louis with the same plethora of emotions that Louis feels—confusion, bewilderment, sadness, frustration. “I—I apologize for withholding information from you, Louis because, yes, perhaps I am. But I don’t do it to hurt you or—or make you feel that I can’t trust you. I just…” He drifts, eyes briefly closing before he opens them again, body sagging with a weight that Louis can’t label. “Louis,” he begins again, gentler. Scratched and low. “You always glorify me. Do you know that? Do you know the way in which you speak of me and my career? Do you know what that _does_ to me, what it feels like? God, Louis, you always speak of this job, of _me_ , as the highest form of existence—“

“I’m sorry if I respect you!” Louis shoots back, face hot, mild paranoia taking hold of his body. “But you know what, no, I won’t apologize for that and I have no shame in admitting that I would give _anything_ to be in such a profession alongside you—“

“And you should be!” Harry continues, taking a step forward and gripping Louis’ arms. His eyes are wild, green and untamed and pouring into Louis’ and his lips part rapidly on the words spilling from his mouth, voice a husk of desperation. “You have exceptional talent, you are a better man than I, but Louis—Louis, _please._ Listen to me.” Stilling, Louis quiets, allowing Harry’s hands to press into his flesh, warm skin sending shocks through his limbs. “It’s not just a stage, alright? It’s a reputation, it’s a persona, it’s a name, it’s an obligation. It’s me doing things that I have no control over. I’m...I’m nothing more than a pawn, Louis. I’m nothing more than a face that delivers another’s lines, performs another’s role. A body that walks for someone else. I am nothing more than a façade and yet you…” He drifts, voice almost breathless as his eyes glaze over with emotion, red-rimmed and bright. Fragile. “You speak of me so highly. When we met, you had such an opinion of me… Made me sound so grand—“

“You _are_ grand,” Louis confirms firmly, pressing his own hands into Harry’s arms, firm and unyielding, fingers pushing into skin.

Harry shakes his head, eyes still glass. “I’m not and I know that, I understand it—I’m merely a puppet. And yet. You, Louis… You make me feel _remarkable_. _More_.” He exhales the words on one long breath, the sound of wind gliding upon birds’ wings. “You make me remember the merit of this life, the joys of it all, the thrill of performing and the excitement of experience. But, mostly, you make me feel like I’m not just a shadow of a man, doing others’ biddings with no semblance of myself.” Louis frowns as Harry barrels on, his skin prickling uncomfortably at the harsh words Harry so easily casts on himself. “And I’m sorry that I’ve selfishly led you to believe that what you think of me is true… Because it’s not. It’s not, Louis.” He’s shaking his head as he speaks, eyes moist with emotion, eyelashes long and glistening dark.

It’s a lot. And it’s not what Louis had been expecting from this conversation.

Feeling rather overwhelmed, he swallows, gripping Harry’s arms back, just as fiercely, and wishing for nothing more than to wipe his eyes, press lips to his lids, hum breath into his mouth. The sight of him is so tragic, so small despite his big name, bigger reputation, and never-ending presence.

“It is,” he protests softer now as he watches the anguish on Harry’s face. “It _is_ ,” he insists again.

But it doesn’t crack through the lingering sadness in Harry’s expression and there’s only a brief pause before he speaks again, words falling from his lips with resigned rapidity.

“For every production I’ve done, for every production that I will do, I’m meant to create the illusion of love with the women I act with,” Harry says, methodic and tired. Confessing. His eyes are unblinking as he stares at Louis, pouring himself out for him with barely any emotion coating the words.

Louis sucks in a breath, waiting before Harry continues, eyes slowly losing their luster with each word.

“And it’s for a number of reasons—publicity, mostly. And a reputation for me so that I will maintain public interest and stand out amongst my peers. I’ve never been involved with any of them truly—not one—but I allow it to happen. I continue to allow myself to be paraded in this manner, to be sold for another’s benefit. And, even now, I must give the illusion that I’m courting Sophia—which is where I was last night—and I’m so sorry, I’m truly sorry. But I don’t love her, I don’t hold _any_ feelings for her other than friendship”—selfishly, Louis exhales, feeling ropes unwind themselves from his chest—“but I must perform like the circus animal that I am, I must, and I’m sorry for not telling you.” The words are fast, almost too fast to catch. “Not only am I an illusion onstage, but I am in one in my own life and I’m sorry, Louis. I’m not noble or clever or—“

But Louis shushes him then, bringing up his hand to press gently over Harry’s lips, emotion flooding his chest with such force that he’s almost lightheaded.

“No, Harry, no,” he mutters softly, almost fondly, as he watches the brittle confusion in Harry’s eyes. “No, you are a very noble man, I’m afraid. And even if you weren’t, I, for one, couldn’t judge you—I am nothing more than a valet! Hardly a role model myself. But Harry. As it stands, there is nothing shameful about _you_ —only the world in which you’re forced to live. You are merely performing duties that, unfortunately, are tied to your job. Does that make you any less of a man? No. It doesn’t take away from your incredible character or spirit or _mind_. Rather, Harry, you are more admirable for it—for being so bloody kind and respectful despite the tedium of your profession, despite having every reason to be bitter and false. But you’re not those things, you’re good, and you do it because you’ve been blessed with the opportunity to do what you love and any man would do the same, were he in your shoes. Nobody can blame you for that—least of all, me.”

Wearily, Harry watches him, as if he’s doubting the sincerity of Louis’ words, body tight and rigid, walls between them. Wheels turning behind his eyes, lips that press together so tightly the soft pink skin bleeds into white, teeth marks curving the edge. It inexplicably breaks Louis’ heart and shuffles up the chaos lining his insides and so he steps still closer, hands gripped tighter on Harry’s arms, and looks him dead in the eye when he next speaks, the amber light of the room painting fire on their skin, in their pupils.  

“Harry,” Louis says, low and sincere. Firm. “I would do the exact same, were I in your position.” Harry’s eyes widen. “Because sometimes the price you pay is worth the reward. Sophia’s a lovely girl, a good friend. There’s no harm in enjoying her friendship and causing a few rumors in return. And, while I wish your character could remain intact and everyone could see you for who you truly are, I certainly would never judge you for it.”

The words feel strange to speak, being so different from what Louis had imagined saying when he first came into this room. Newfound information is assaulting his brain at high speed, jumbling all together, and yet all he feels is Harry beneath his hands and the steady, thrumming knowledge that he’s not in love with Sophia.

And yet…

Harry _can’t_ love anybody—because he can only love for show. His life must mirror his art.

It’s a harsh realization, utterly heartbreaking, and Louis doesn’t even know who his heart splits for; himself? Or Harry. Maybe both.

“Louis Tomlinson,” Harry replies almost breathlessly at last, emotion writ all over his face, his entire countenance flustered. Shaking his head, he looks at Louis in near-wonder, eyes wide and framed in perfect spears of eyelashes. “I don’t know what to say… I—surely, you are one of the kindest souls I’ve ever met. _The_ kindest. You...are too good to me, too generous...”

“I’m as kind to you as you deserve,” Louis amends firmly and Harry just exhales, surprised and moved as he ducks his head, passing a hand over his face. “I’m glad you told me,” Louis continues after he swallows, trying to catch his eye, stomach still in knots. “About Sophia. I had thought… I had seen rumors of you two in the papers this morning, knowing you had been with her last night when you hadn’t come, and I’d thought that, perhaps, you were in love with her. Not that it’s any of my concern, of course!” Louis rushes, stomach still twisting, face heating in a flush that wraps all the way up to his ears, licking into his hairline. He drops his hands from Harry’s arms, taking a step back. “I just—I didn’t understand why you would keep such vital information—I wondered if you didn’t trust me, or—“

“No, no,” Harry insists, shaking his head with urgency as he looks to Louis imploringly, arms frozen in their trajectory to reach out, to reconnect their bodies. He bites his lip before they fall back to his sides, fingers twitching. “No, Louis, not at all. I could never… Please believe me when I tell you that I trust you. Completely.”

Birds take flight in Louis’ ribs as he looks down at the tips of his worn leather shoes, burying hot hands in his pockets because suddenly they itch to touch Harry, to press themselves against the velvet of his jacket sleeves, the satin of his shirt, the ruffles of his collar…. His neck.

Louis’ skin flushes even further as he briefly closes his eyes, balling up his fists.

He can’t, he can’t. It’s impossible, could never work. Harry has obligations, he has friends and fame and…

And he probably doesn’t even feel that way. About Louis. He probably doesn’t…

It’s an impossibility.

“Well,” Louis eventually manages, gathering himself as he clears his throat and adopts a smile that feels too tight for his skin, “as it is—I’m glad we’ve spoken about this. I, er… Thank you. For confiding in me and, er, trusting me.” His neck feels hot as he struggles through the words, suddenly embarrassed by his own emotions, by how unkempt and foolish he must look standing there. By how foolish he was earlier, how unjustly angry.

Why does he always feel like such a fool lately?

But Harry is looking at him in every way but foolishly; softly, he procures a half-smile, the sadness and desperation in his eyes replaced by a soft green light that’s reminiscent of lake water on a pale morning, hit by newly budded sunlight. Warm water that washes over Louis, makes him settles in his shoes and unball his fists…

And, Jesus, Louis is waxing poetic. He’s been reading too many books.

“Thank you,” Harry replies quietly. So deep, so low. So soft. “I’m sorry I didn’t mention any of this sooner. I must confess, I didn’t want you to know.”

Louis’ eyebrows rise. “Why?” he asks, surprised.

For a moment, Harry is silent, eyes downcast. “I...didn’t wish to change your opinion of me.” He smiles, a touch distant from his eyes.

And something is liquidy in Louis, something is syrupy and sticky and unpleasant again inside but he smiles through it, wishing the ease of his lungs could expand into his brain, where a very quiet storm just won’t go away.  “Never,” he replies quietly, solidly, and it eases some of the last remnants of tension lingering by Harry’s soft eyes.

For a moment they just stand there, looking at each other with fading smiles as a strange stretch of silence begins to fill between them. Louis shuffles on his feet, suddenly overcome with the need to _do_ something, the silence digging into his neck as it wedges beneath his collar. Pulse rickety, he adopts another cheerfully fake smile before making his way across the room, seeking Harry’s coat, steps a little unsteady, lips a little too precarious to hold the expression.

“Have you time to practice lines?” Harry asks after one syrupy minute, watching as Louis gathers the coat in clumsy hands. His voice is hopeful, scraped like thick fabric. “It’s just that I’ve been benefitting from our sessions as of late…” He gestures to the forgotten bouquet with one ebony velvet clad arm, all long and graceful despite the unsure smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I know I’ve been demanding much of your time. Hence the flowers. I thought, perhaps, you would like them? Or…” He fades a bit, arm dropping back to his side as he watches Louis’ silent figure coming towards him, coat extended. Smile diminishing, he observes him as his tone drops, quieter. “It it too much? Do you not like them?”

“I adore them,” Louis replies immediately in a quiet voice, slowly sliding on Harry’s coat methodically, a heaviness lingering in his spirit. Harry is calm beneath his hands, inquiring and confused, with traces of sadness and hurt. It’s awful to feel, bloody awful, but there’s so much going on in Louis’ head and heart that he can’t even think straight, let alone act accordingly. He swallows, itching to leave the room as his fingers brush Harry’s shoulders, hands smoothing down his arms.

Too much. The contact too warm, too wanted. Too close but too far.

“And therein lies the problem,” Louis whispers then, mostly to himself, as he takes a step back, observing Harry with the apocalypse in his chest.

And Harry, Harry watches him with a sudden stricken look, confusion pouring from him and it’s so, so awful. Louis doesn’t know how to explain.

Sighing, he looks to his feet. “Harry, sir. I value our friendship greatly—“

“As do I,” Harry insists, frown deep. Almost mindlessly, he steps forward, as if seeking contact with Louis, seeking his presence and proximity. Always.

It just further churns the storm inside of Louis. But still, he presses on.

“I value it almost as much as I value you,” he continues quietly, voice as steady as he can will it. “Which is a very great deal, indeed. And that is the truth. I care for you very deeply.” But he says it with such a heaviness that it’s almost exhausting to speak.

It just all feels like too much.

“I care deeply for you too,” Harry replies after a moment, sounding almost unsure as he watches Louis hesitantly, as if waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under him. “And your friendship means the world to me. I admit, I don’t know where I’d be without it.”

“And I cherish that,” Louis says, taking a step back. Sighing, he looks up to meet Harry’s eye, wishing for nothing more than to sleep. He’s so bloody exhausted, he just wants to sleep. “Is there anything else today, sir?”

Harry watches him closely, looking almost afraid. “Will you… Do you wish to see me tonight? If you’re not doing anything, that is…”

But the idea makes Louis’ stomach shrivel, the stress of the situation rolling over him in waves, and all he can do is shake his head, just wanting to sleep, wanting to be alone, to crawl into his bed and bloody _sleep_. “Actually, I’m not feeling very well. I think I might just retire early? Another time, though,” he assures, hating the way Harry’s face falls as he slowly begins to depart, backing up towards the door. Hand seeking the handle and grasping it tightly.

“Oh. Alright. Of course.”

He just needs one night. One night to think, to rest, to sort the mess in his head and heart. That’s all.

“Another night,” Louis promises before he shuts the door, leaving Harry in the room.

It’s unheard of—for a valet to leave his actor behind so callously. But Louis can’t even think about that as the handle clicks, Harry’s eyes still digging into the back of his neck.

**

It’s been days and yet Louis’ head still feels like it’s being held together with worn twine.

He can’t even place what’s really wrong , can’t really understand why everything feels brittle and unsure still; Harry’s confirmed that Sophia is merely a stunt, one to garner attention and give Mr. Higgins’ theater and Zayn’s play the attention from the public that it deserves. It makes perfect sense on paper, the bullet points logical and well-phrased, the logic undeniable.

And yet. Somehow, Louis _still_ feels like a bloody fool.

Because it just cannot _be_ with Harry, can it? The bubble he had previously been living in, the disillusioned but faint hope he had held… There really is no chance for it, is there? There will always be society, there will always be legal ramifications, there will always be leading ladies and reputations and gossip. And there will never feasibly be a Louis and Harry. Somewhere, Louis knew this; and yet it still feels like hot coals on his heart, melting the tender flesh away and exposing raw tissue.

“Are you alright?” Liam asks, face permanently set into a frown ever since Sophia and Harry’s ‘romance’ has begun; they never act romantic at the theater, merely making appearances in society together, and yet Liam is utterly heartbroken by the prospect, insisting that his father would have told him, should it be a farce.

“They’re really not together—it’s just for show,” Louis constantly insists but Liam just shakes his head, eyes sad.

“Her feelings for him aren’t just for show, I’m afraid. And I can’t be second to a man with _woman’s_ hair and an utterly pompous demeanor that—“

“Liam,” Louis will scold shortly, gripping his shoulder and leveling him with a look. “Stop. Don’t speak that way, you tit. Sophia likes you just fine—you just gotta stop pouting in the background and start wooing her.”

And then Liam falls silent, favoring his pout over his common sense.

Even now, he’s pouting, eyes both forlorn and vehement as he watches Harry and Sophia perform onstage, their bodies circling one another’s beneath a painted purple sky of stars, rich black and silver fabric bordering the stage in luxurious waterfalls, glitter alight on the floor; it’s meant to be the dead of night and Ambrosia is beginning to reciprocate Felix’s affections. It’s a passionate scene, one where she’s draped in deep crimson and gold and looking unjustifiably beautiful while Harry, of course, looks even moreso. Resplendent in deepest purple and black, looking the very image of the prince that he is, he declares his will and loyalty in clever riddles that are meant to leave Ambrosia impressed, taken with his determination to prove himself worthy of her affections. It’s a beautiful scene, lit by the glow of copper that Louise has swept across Harry’s eyes, the tips of his cheekbones, and his lips. He looks brazen yet soft, fiery and regal…. So remarkably gorgeous. 

Louis groans inwardly, tearing his gaze away, a hole in his stomach.

“I’m fine,” he manages with a laughably fake smile, hands gripping the armrests of his chair as he tries with all his will not to look back at Harry; he’ll just feel that same hole in his stomach, that same tumultuous question mark that means nothing and yet has managed to wiggle its way into their friendship. That same feeling that’s led him astray from Harry’s presence this past week, rendering him lonely, bitter, and small. He sighs.

“Well, I’m not fine,” Liam immediately mutters, brown eyes all but black as he watches the scene unblinkingly. “Look at him—look at him, Louis. Your boy is all but slobbering on her, it’s disgusting!”

 _Your boy_.

Resisting the urge to slam his head into the back of the chair in front of him, Louis narrows his eyes at Liam instead, voice level. “I think you’ll find that _she’s_ slobbering on _him_ , rather.”

“She is not, she’s acting,” Liam insists hotly but there’s still doubt in his voice as he glances between the pair, unsure. (Liam is nothing if not terribly indecisive and petulant.)

“Didn’t know she could do that,” Louis mutters under his breath childishly because, apparently, he’s become a bloody prick now as well. He frowns at himself, rubbing his eyes. “Ugh, I sound like Zayn now.”

“Probably spending too much time with him and Niall,” Liam mutters, glancing at him briefly. “What’s with that, anyway? You haven’t been following Styles around like a lost pup these past days. Did you have a falling out?”

“No,” Louis half-lies because it’s not exactly a lie, is it? “No, I’ve just been trying to help with the play more. He’s fairly independent so I figured I’d just…branch off a bit.” It sounds half-arsed even to his own ears but Liam buys it, totally oblivious as to how the world works anyways.

“Hm, makes sense,” he nods, folding his arms with a harsh exhale. His face darkens again after a moment, watching as Harry falls to his knees in surrender. Louis swallows, watching the way his eyes encompass the stage lights as he looks up to Sophia, watches as his soft, pale hands clutch at the fabric over his heart, his limbs long and slender, his neck white and exposed. Curls glossed and loose, perfectly structured around his face. Shoulders so strong.

The hole in his stomach widens.

“You know what,” Liam suddenly pipes up, something flashing in his eyes. Louis looks over to him, happy for the distraction. “I find it rather funny that Styles can suddenly portray love so seamlessly.”

At that, Louis falters a bit, brows scrunching as he returns back to the scene, watching as Harry fumbles for Sophia’s hand, words plaintive and humble, eyes desperate and mad. He acts so effortlessly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that Zayn and Niall were constantly fretting to father about Styles’ incompetence on the matter. They claimed he lacked the skill to portray the emotion. Father had been concerned—was going to talk to you about it, actually, because you have such a kinship with the man”—Louis’ stomach twists uncomfortably—“but, it appears, he’s suddenly cured of whatever affliction he may have possessed. How very bloody convenient,” he finishes flatly, looking on the verge of spontaneous combustion.

Still, Louis stares at him, a small frown slowly forming on his mouth. “I don’t understand what you’re implying, Liam. Surely, you don’t think that Sophia is the cause for this?”

“Well why wouldn’t she be?” Liam challenges immediately, turning to Louis. “Don’t you think it’s rather funny that his proficiency for love has suddenly bloomed in time with his romance with her? Don’t you find that just remarkably coincidental?”

And…well. Liam’s not wrong. Over the past handful of weeks, Harry has been improving on the scenes that had previously troubled him; and while Louis had just accredited it to the continuous rehearsing they’d been doing together (perhaps even accrediting it to his own advice and attention), his skill has noticeably increased around the time he began to court Sophia.

The thought plunks into the pit of Louis’ stomach.

“Perhaps,” he allows after a moment, nauseous.

It isn’t logical, it isn’t logical. Is it?

“So you do think they’re together,” Liam instantly questions, whipping his head around at impressive speed.

But Louis doesn’t respond, his throat suddenly too dry, as he watches the pair onstage and wonders if he’s even more of a bloody fool than he’d already thought.

**

Despite Louis still attending to Harry every day, the air between has started to become noticeably stiffer.

“Something’s wrong,” Harry insists later that evening, watching with a frown as Louis shines up the buttons on his jacket, face determined and silent. “You’ve been acting oddly all week. Not like yourself at all. Apart from the few lines we’ve been rehearsing”—he gestures to all the green carnations wilting on the vanity, their clusters and crumbles from days upon days of being left behind; Louis doesn’t take them home anymore—“I’ve hardly seen you, hardly heard you speak. _Louis._ ” He says his name and it sounds like soft hands brushing the red velvet ropes that line the entryway. Louis feels him take a step closer, feels the energy buzzing beneath Harry’s skin, and it sets his hair on edge, his stomach rolling. It’s too much, too much. “Is it something I’ve done? Is it the Sophia—“

“No,” Louis cuts him off, spinning around immediately but unable to meet his eye for shame. It’s awful, Louis knows the way he’s acting is awful. Rather bizarre, even. And yet he can’t seem to communicate the logic of his brain to his heart, his stomach, his pulse. Everything feels so utterly painful and sludgy with Harry’s presence around—always too close but too, too far—and there are no words he can use to convey this conflict, no sentiments he can share aloud that will explain.

It’s utterly unfair and Louis just… He doesn’t know what to bloody do, save for pretending, avoiding, feigning ignorance.

It just feels so wrong. Cowardly, even. Life has never been so _difficult_.

“No, please, don’t start—“ Louis begins, unsure how to phrase the random words pelting is brain, all mixed up with unnamed emotions. He stares at the rag in his hands, smudged with grey and black streaks, coating his fingers in a soft oil. “I don’t want you to start apologizing for things again,” he says with a half-smile, wishing it felt warmer than it does. “I’m sorry if I’ve not been myself. But, sir, I must assure you that it’s more to do with myself than you.”

“But it is, in some way, to do with me?” Harry implores, eyes very wide as he takes another step. He looks dark suddenly, hair so dark, eyes so dark, clothes so striking against flesh. It’s the opposite of intimidating though—it’s just somehow more alluring. Like a Gothic hero. A ghost. A dream. Louis is sure that, were he to pry his ribs open, his heart would be the same color as Harry’s lips. “It’s driving me to madness, Louis. I fear I’ve hurt you in some way or—or perhaps driven you away? I miss you—your friendship, your laugh, your—“

“Harry,” Louis interjects, the words cutting just a bit too close to home. So close. But so far. He closes his eyes, still fiddling with the rag, still attempting composure.

But Harry doesn’t listen, instead walking up to Louis and gently gripping his forearms, head bent so as to catch his eye in his own fiery gaze. “Look at me,” he implores, the words born from fire. He’s gentle, always so gentle, but there’s always this underlying brilliance and madness and passion that Louis is always, always drawn to; it’s something that he’s begun to see more and more as Harry opens up, relaxing his finely-honed reputation and cordialities to make way for the natural beauty from within. He is, undoubtedly, a genius. And Louis is mad for it. “Please. Just once today, look at me.”

If the words were any softer, they would’ve been burned up by the flicks of candle flame around them, swallowed up by the voices that just barely carry past the door. But instead, Louis hears them, feeling them lock into his muscles as they force his head up, eyes meeting with Harry’s dark ones, his brow immediately softening, his fingers digging deeper into Louis’ skin.

“There,” he mutters on a sigh and Louis feels his hands go limp, the rag nearly falling from his grasp as his feet relax in his shoes, his body unwinding from the weight of everything. “There you are.”

And, just like that, Louis feels the hole in his stomach all but vanish.

“Yeah,” he whispers back, eyes flicking across Harry’s face. Tentatively, he smiles, but it’s natural, feels easier than any other smile he’s attempted the past few days, and he watches as Harry’s own blooms; it’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen, probably. He wishes he were exaggerating.

“I wish you would tell me whatever it is that’s plaguing you,” Harry whispers—why are they whispering?—as he continues to stand so close that his words form breath on Louis’ cheeks and chin. He smells of wine and mint, something truly intoxicating.

“I wish I could as well,” Louis says back, his smile beginning to fade as reality crashes back like the tide. Ebb and flow.

Harry frowns then, something deep and helpless overcoming his features as he grips tighter to Louis, as if afraid he’ll slip away, and it’s so raw and trusting and familiar, so lovely, that it makes Louis feel bloody reckless.

“Perhaps…” he begins, hesitant as Harry’s eyes lock onto his lips, intent. “Perhaps I could tell you, though…”

“Yes, please,” Harry immediately nods, stumbling them with the force of his proximity as he leans still closer, as if to meld his physical being with Louis, and it’s dizzying and almost manic but Louis understands because he feels the same way, he does, and he keeps his ground as he reaches out to grip back. “Yes, Louis, you can tell me anything. Just as I know now that I can tell you—“

“Tonight,” Louis interjects softly, lost in the fire of Harry’s gaze as he hears his voice fall from his lips, feeling like fresh air is suddenly invigorating his lungs because he’s touching Harry again, talking to him, seeing himself reflected in his eyes and he’s missed him so much, he’s missed the simplicity of how they fit. “Come over tonight and I...” But Louis fades as he watches Harry’s face fade away, his expression weakening to one of shame as his grip loosens on Louis, eyes falling to the floor. “What?” Louis presses, caught off guard. “What is it?”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry mutters quietly, sounding so forlorn. “I’m sorry, I can’t, I—I have to be with Sophia tonight, I’m sorry—“ He looks up, eyebrows pulled tight, and Louis’ stomach drops out again as he releases Harry’s arms and steps back, a cold breath of ice replacing the warmth in his chest.

Ah, yes. Another reminder of the impossibility of it all.

Perhaps this is for the best.

“I see,” Louis says quietly, taking another step back as he watches Harry’s face fall. “Of course. I understand perfectly—I do. And, truthfully, it’s probably for the best.”

“But surely another night?” Harry implores, taking a step forward; Louis steps back. “Or now, even? I just—I miss you, Louis, I’m worried, I—“

But Louis shakes his head, lips pressed thin. “There is no need for apology, sir. You have obligations and I respect that. This is best.”

“Louis—“

“This is best,” Louis repeats, firmer, before sighing and retreating to the door. “Another time, Harry.” Silence. Harry watches him, looking impossibly sad, hands limp at his sides, the ribbons of his collar untied. “Is there anything else before I go?”

Wordlessly, Harry shakes his head, throat bobbing with one swallow.

Louis watches the movement in his neck, feels a twinge in his gut.

“Until tomorrow, then,” he says quietly, departing.

“Just one night longer, little Swallow?” he hears Harry question quietly, so very quietly, that Louis can pretend he didn’t hear him at all.

**

The next day, the theater is laden with pure and utter chaos.

Since it’s Niall and Zayn’s first attempt at a dress rehearsal and Mr. Higgins himself is in attendance, watching from the back with a cigar and an amused expression brightening his already warm cheeks, it’s hardly surprising that the world has upended itself.

“I need you to stop _singing_ your cursed lines,” Zayn’s fiercely imploring to Sophia, his eyes pinched black, hair sticking up in every direction—from both his and Niall’s fingers—as he gesticulates with a half-smoked cigarette in each hand, pen behind his ear, green scarf untangling around his neck. A few of the buttons on his shirt have popped off, leaving his undershirt exposed, his skin a caramelly pallor beneath it, necklaces entangled on his chest. He looks a ruddy mess, with deep sinkholes beneath his eyes and a jaw that’s scratched with budding beard, but it’s more amusing than terrifying.

At least, Louis thinks so. Sophia looks a little unnerved. And irate.

“I’m not _singing,_ ” she sighs, frustrated, as she rolls her large eyes, jutting out her jaw in defiance. Script in hand, she folds arms across her chest, locking eyes with Liam—who’s just a stone’s throw away, onstage, staring at her with his hands clasped. “Liam, am I singing?”

As if summoned by a god, Liam all but leaps to her side. “No, of course not!” he practically gasps, looking to Zayn with incredulity. “Zayn, if anything, she’s _sighing_ the words, breathing _life_ into them! Her pure emotion is lifting the stage, her presence—“

“Enough, enough,” Zayn snaps, shoving up his wiry hand in dismissal just as Niall’s voice suddenly hollers at a stage hand, the sound cracking like a whip through the air.

Everybody jolts, spinning around.

Despite being livid, Niall seems to register the sudden change in atmosphere, all eyes on him, as he slowly turns away from the cowering boy and meets Zayn’s eye. “What?” he snaps defensively, his accent that much more accentuated, glasses pushed up into his hair. His pale forehead is alight with sweat, his blue eyes darker than midnight sky. “He just gave me _tea.”_

“But you asked for tea!” the boy insists, gesticulating with his hands.

Fast as lightning, Niall whips back to him. “I didn’t JUST want bloody tea! I’m not a fuckin’ Englishman!”

Utterly bemused, the boy looks helplessly over to Zayn, who rubs a hand over his face and sighs, leaving a frustrated Sophia in his wake as he ambles over to Niall, settling a gentle hand on his back. Rubbing it, he turns to the boy, face exhausted as it attempts to appear patient and kind—a true feat.

“He needs at least a splash of whiskey in everything that touches his mouth, kid,” he explains, voice murmured and even. “Forgive him, though—he’s under a bit of stress.”

Frowning, Niall sighs, rubbing his worn eyes with a fist, his other hand gesturing to the stage, packed with its inhabitants. “I wouldn’t be stressed if these fuckin’ clowns had memorized at least half their lines.”

“Oi,” Harry frowns, arms dropping from his hips to his sides. He’s got a pure pout on his face and Louis wants to snort, wants to feel annoyed rather than endeared. But the problem is, is that Harry’s beautiful even when he’s childish. “I’ve memorized my lines ages ago! Surely, you can’t blame me—“

“Not everything’s about you, Styles,” Niall then glowers, turning on his heel and storming away as Zayn almost topples over in his wake, losing his balance as he stares after him, arm still extended. “Just because you’re the big name onstage, doesn’t mean I give a shit about you.”

“He does give a shit, though!” Zayn amends weakly with a less-than-comforting expression (he’s never been very good at human interaction) before he scuttles after Niall, gently coaxing him down from his rage.

“You know it’s bad when Malik’s the sane one,” Mr. Higgins snorts, taking a deep drag from his cigar.

Beside him, Louis laughs, smoke tickling his nostrils. “It’s not often that they switch places but, I can assure you, I’ve seen it more than I can count by now.”

“I’m sure you have,” Higgins smirks before patting him solidly on the back once.

For a moment, they’re silent, just watching the actors bustle about the stage, exchanging lines as Caroline rushes around, pinning this’s and that’s to everybody’s costumes, pins in her mouth, pins in her hair, pins everywhere, ribbons tied around her thin wrists. Across the stage is Louise, a pallet of brushes stuffed in her apron as she wrestles her newest victim into submission, brushing powders over the shine of their foreheads, touching up the red of their lips, eyes steely and concentrated—Louis always enjoys watching her like this; rarely is she ever this serious and dedicated. Usually she’s busy smart-mouthing and gossiping, picking at her nails and being generally very annoying. She’d probably say the same about Louis, though.

It’s comforting, almost. Watching everything fly by in a flurry. It gives Louis less time to hear his own thoughts, to think about the dull sort of ache that fills his chest for no credible reason.

But it also gives him plenty of time to swipe his eyes over Harry, who stands atop the stage like Zeus on Mount Olympus, and that’s not so comforting. That’s rather awful, actually.

“How do you like our newest asset, then? Styles,” Mr. Higgins’ voice suddenly asks, breaking up the chunk of Louis’ thoughts.

Blinking, he turns to him, smoothing out his features to indifference despite the kickstart of his heart at the name. “Harry?” he asks, on instinct.

Raising his eyebrows, Higgins takes another drag. “Very familiar then, are you?”

Feeling a light flush in his neck, Louis nods, half-shrugging as he turns back to the stage. “Yeah, I guess. Yeah.”

A brief pause.

“Is he a good sort?”

“He is, sir,” Louis nods, flashing a smile.

Higgins is observing him with his own small smile, smoke framing his face. “You seem rather fond of him, m’boy—“

Startled, Louis’ smile drops, eyes widening as he turns to fully face Higgins, his blood suddenly growing cold—

“Which makes me all the more fond of him myself,” he finishes warmly, nudging Louis’ ribs in playful fondness. It prompts a deep exhale from the latter as he laughs, so, so relieved, body relaxing as his natural smile overcomes his face.

He’s just being paranoid.

“Yes, he’s a good sort, sir. Probably the best I’ve seen. His talent is incredible,” he can’t help but say, even if it does hurt a bit to merely _look_ at the man in question. But, regardless of Louis’ own issues, Harry really is incredible, is truly of another caliber. Higgins deserves to know and Harry deserves to be known. “I’ve even had the privilege of rehearsing some of his lines with him and…” He shakes his head, images sweeping past his eyes. “I find myself truly thankful.”

For a moment, Higgins watches him, a small smile dabbling his mouth. Then he grins fuller, biting the cigar in his teeth as he pats Louis’ shoulder one last time; the weight is familiar and comforting, making Louis feel a little more solid than he has these past days.

“I share your sentiments, Louis,” Mr. Higgins says, with all the pride of his position, before going back to his observing of the stage, pleased as can be.

It’s only after a few moments of random chaos—Niall slinging back whiskey straight from the bottle as Zayn murmurs in his ear, hand on shoulder—that Mr. Higgins speaks again, voice pitched louder over the hum of chatter all smashed together and tripping over itself.

“Perhaps you should reconvene when Horan’s a little less affected?” he shouts, a chuckle beneath his words as both Zayn and Niall look up at the sound.

“Er…” Zayn drifts, looking over to Niall, unsure. (Niall’s stubborn as hell, always preferring to call the shots.)

Luckily though, he nods, flopping down into one of the chairs in the audience without another second’s thought. “Will do,” he calls, flashing a nonsensical hand gesture before Zayn dismisses everyone for a break; the following sigh of relief in the room is palpable.

For a second, Louis doesn’t move, just watches the stage slowly clear out, Mr. Higgins’ presence beside him comforting. Smoke and wax fill his nostrils, warm lights coat his limbs. It’s almost as if he can forget the dull ache in his chest and brain…

He feels a nudge to his elbow.

“I believe that’s your call?” Higgins asks, eyes amused. It takes Louis a moment to understand—and, oh. Harry. Oh. “Go on, then” Higgins nudges after the lightbulb’s clicked in Louis’ head and a metaphorical bucket of water is consequently doused over his head. It probably results in electrocution. “Attend to the greatest actor of our time: Harry Edward Styles.” Higgins chuckles the name before he goes back to his cigar, eyes slitted approvingly, and Louis can only smile shakily in response as he silently stands, the comfort suddenly gone as quickly as it had come.

Well, then. Time to face Harry for the first time today. Splendid.

Due to the unconventional, impromptu “dress rehearsal”, Louis had managed to avoid the dressing room altogether again today, having offered his services to Caroline and Louise instead, gathering up their materials and assisting them with whatever was needed. Not once did he bump into Harry, nor even see him—not until he took the stage and Louis was already seated in the back with Mr. Higgins. It was a bit of a blessing as it was a burden, making him sad and quiet and unsure as he wound fingers through the fabric of his trousers at the sound of his voice, biting his lip as he watched silently, all the while as he pretended that he didn’t have a brain that was humming louder than the electric lights.

But avoidance can only last for so long and now, it seems, Louis’ time is up.

Time to face the music.

Swallowing his thoughts, he walks down the long aisle, wondering why his knees appear to be knocking together.

**

“You were absent again today,” is how Harry greets him, the minute Louis steps into the room.

Feeling prickles of guilt at the accusation, Louis frowns, refusing to meet Harry’s eye as he shuts the door behind himself slowly. Upon feeling it click, he continues to stand there, back pressed against the wood, still staring at his shoes, the scuffs on the floor, the bits of linen collected there. He should probably clean more.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a tense moment, syrup once again filling the room. His toe scuffs the ground as he directs the words downward, mumbled. “Told you I was a shit valet.”

“You’ve never been a shit valet,” Harry counters firmly and Louis can hear the frown in his mouth just as well as he can envision it perfectly. “Still aren’t. I just wish I knew what’s been going on with you.”

At the blunt honesty of Harry’s tired words, Louis doesn’t respond, doesn’t even intend to, and the obvious silence of it makes the room feel still heavier, thicker, more awful. Every creak can be heard, every exhale. Louis’ hands fiddle with the brass handle behind his back, eyes still planted downward.

“I, er, I’m afraid I don’t know the next scene they’re going to be performing today,” Louis murmurs then, changing the subject entirely in hopes to break up some of the suffocation he’s caused; it’s creeping along his neck, creeping down his throat. He tries to swallow it away, feeling like a right and utter bastard and whishing he couldn’t smell Harry’s perfume. “Wasn’t able to get ahold of Liam—he was too busy comforting Sophia. Of course.”

“Of course,” Harry frowns, watching Louis closely. Neither move. “Is he terribly cross with me for…everything?”

“Yes,” Louis admits, finally looking up. Harry looks startling when he’s this close, when he’s not just splashed on a stage. He’s tangible and flawed and beautiful and real, pale and tall and full of frantic atoms that Louis swears he can feel. “Yes, is he but that’s just Liam’s way. I’m sure he’ll be fine soon enough. Once he truly discovers the truth of it all on his own. I’m afraid he won’t believe me—he’s stubborn.”

“Ah. Well, he’s certainly not the only stubborn soul I know.”

Louis glances at Harry, watches as a quick smirk brightens then fades on Harry’s lips. He tries to return it but ends up short, looking back down at his feet.

“Do you…need anything right now? From me? Or—“

“Yes,” Harry insists immediately then, almost taking a step forward before stopping himself, tightening his hands at his sides. When Louis looks up, he finds Harry’s expression to be struggling, as if fighting to keep an indifferent composure while something far stronger rages on beneath the surface. He knows the feeling all too well. “Yes, I do need you. You see, I actually have a very important scene coming up. Sophia told me. Zayn told her. It’s a…love scene. Of sorts.”

For a moment, Louis’ blood runs irrationally cold with jealousy before he’s able to clear his throat and gather himself, looking up with a face he prays doesn’t betray him. “A love scene, you say,” he repeats hollowly, clearing his throat again because the words sound off. “How very…poetic.”

Harry nods, seeming distracted as he stares at Louis. “Indeed.”

Slowly, Louis peels himself off of the door, slowly walking to where his brushes lie on the vanity, where the wardrobe stands with all of Harry’s costumes. “I presume you’ll need to change?”

“Just my jacket. Perhaps my tie,” Harry says quietly, watching Louis’ every move. “Can you bring me my scarf? The gold one? I want to dress the part—not that I have any choice. I’m sure Caroline would behead me, were I to defy her orders.”

“You’re all too correct,” Louis mutters as he hesitantly gravitates back to Harry, flashing a small smile as he raises unsure hands to his shoulders, gently pulling back the jacket and watching the muscles of his back bloom beneath the cotton of his shirt, stripping the fabric away. His stomach wiggles, sending a surge of feeling up to his throat.

_Be normal, be normal._

“I’m meant to kiss her,” Harry suddenly says quietly, as Louis gathers the jacket in his hands, smoothing it out. Carefully, he hangs it in the wardrobe, ears alert as Harry speaks, his breath baited. “We’ve practiced the scene a thousand times, you know. Have it perfected, even. But we’ve never yet kissed. Mostly because I’ve insisted that it would ruin the spontaneity of the moment if we rehearsed it too much. Zayn and Niall both agreed. But today… Today, they expect it.”

Slowly, Louis takes another jacket off its hanger—the purple one. Eyes  focused on his movements, he responds after a full moment’s silence, feeling bereft of his innards, of his words; but Harry waits patiently, clearly desiring a response.

“Well, it is a dress rehearsal, after all,” Louis manages, somewhat strangled. He pauses, coming forward, eyes downcast and hair falling into his line of vision. He should’ve combed it today. “Sort of.”

“Sort of,” Harry agrees, a small smile on his lips. It fades as he watches Louis approach, looks down at him as he fusses with sliding it over Harry’s arms, his shoulders. Smoothes hands down the front and buttons it. One button at a time, shiny gold pushed through plush velvet. Harry watching Louis. Louis’ hands shaking. “I don’t want to do it, though,” he says at last, voice off.

And Louis just breathes, focusing on the buttons, feeling Harry’s breath above him.

_This is normal, this is normal._

“I confess that...it’s not her that I wish to kiss.”

Swallowing, Louis finishes the last button—and thank god, because his hands are all but ready to fall off, they’re shaking so harshly—and steps back, feeling a dizzying sense of confusion and want in his head as he looks anywhere but at Harry. Blood pumps to his brain but it’s… It’s too close, too far.

None of this makes sense.

“You’ve been getting better at portraying your love for her,” Louis says at last, feigning composure as he gently turns Harry around, towards the mirror that lies above the vanity, before moving back to the wardrobe. Expressionless, Harry observes himself through it, ringed fingers swiping down his front, brushing over the gilt buttons and catching the lights, glowing bright gold. Little flashes of manmade sunlight.  

“I often hear the lines in your voice,” he then confesses in response, almost silently, the slow hum of his voice filled with something Louis can’t label; he freezes as he reaches for the thick, golden scarf, body rigid as he waits for Harry’s next words, shock stuttering the pulse of his heart.

Because what…what is he saying?

“Our rehearsals have honed my skills far more than any education has,” Harry continues quietly and Louis exhales, unsure, as he finally grabs the thick scarf and walks up behind Harry, peering at their reflections over the man’s shoulder.

“I’m happy to help, sir,” he says simply before sucking in a breath and carefully winding arms around Harry’s torso, draping the scarf artfully around his thin neck, fumbling to tuck it into the collar of his shirt.

It’s only when Harry’s fingers bump into his own that Louis inhales even more sharply, his stomach all but dropping out of his body. It’s like a livewire’s suddenly been thwacked against his flesh, his body alighting and sharpening, his vision almost whiting out with just the barest _touch_ of Harry’s skin. It’s all so much, so charged, so lonely, so beautiful—he misses Harry, he adores Harry, he _wants_ Harry. He doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore, doesn’t understand anything, doesn’t understand himself, even, and he’s being driven mad because of Harry bloody Styles. Because he _exists_. Because his fingers are currently entangling slowly with Louis’ across his chest, Louis’ chin almost hooked onto his shoulder, arms draped around him still, the scarf laced between their hands, draping gold satin over their knuckles.

Slowly, Louis drags his eyes back to their reflection in the mirror, locking eyes and almost startling at Harry’s intensity, the darkness of his gaze, as he sees just how seamlessly they fit. How bloody perfect they are, entangled, and—

And they’re _entangled_. _Shit_.

Panicked, Louis steps back, ripping his arms away as heat flashes through his body, ashamed. Suddenly so ashamed because he’s being foolish, he isn’t being careful, he doesn’t even know what he’s _doing_ —

“I’m sorry,” he says, pinching his eyes shut as he drops his head, ashamed, so ashamed. “I’m sorry, sir—“

He feels Harry swivel around, feels Harry’s hand reach out to clasp Louis’ wrist, fingers wrapping around effortlessly. Softly. Skin warm.

“Please don’t apologize,” he whispers, breathless. _Breathless_. Louis is dizzy. “I don’t want you to. Please. Don’t—“

“I should go,” Louis mutters, though he doesn’t move, panicked as his mind whites out on logic, on reason. All he can feel is Harry’s hand, Harry’s breath.

“I don’t want you to go either,” Harry whispers back, almost pleading.

It cracks something in Louis.

Swallowing, he opens his eyes, slowly lifting his head to look Harry in the eye, feeling the tension, stress, and weight drain from his body as he finds Harry’s gentle, flushed face so close to his own, looking down at him with such gentle intent that it paralyzes him. Gas lamps reflect in his eyes. His skin looks like fresh cream.

“I miss you, Louis,” Harry suddenly whispers, _whispers_ , and Louis’ eyes fall to his lips, shock slackening his mouth as Harry steps closer, closer, other hand reaching out—then falling—then reaching out—to gently settle on his waist, light as a feather. Ready to depart, should Louis make the briefest, smallest gesture.

But he doesn’t.

“I miss you so much,” he continues quietly, words wrapped in red lips. Louis watches them, fixated. “I don’t know what I’ve done or what’s wrong but I miss you, I _miss_ you, and I don’t want you to apologize, I don’t want you to go, I just want you…here.” Gently, he squeezes Louis’ waist, hand so large, fingers so splayed. Sending bolts and volts through Louis’ body. “You, _you_ are my inspiration, my art… I want nothing more than to be near you constantly.”

All Louis can do is breath, frozen as Harry spills quiet words over him, hands still there, lips still there, his body right here.

“You’re driving me to madness,” he eventually whispers and when Louis finally rips his gaze away from his mouth, he finds Harry’s eyes closed, brow knit, and he looks to be in pain, almost.  “You haunt me and I—I _miss_ you.” The words sound anguished, like Harry’s in anguish, like he’s mirroring exactly what Louis feels. That same sort of frustrated anguish and longing… _that Louis feels_.

Louis’ heart pauses.

Wait. The same. They…feel the same.

Harry feels it too.

In that moment, Louis is sure.

“Harry,” he says quietly, wonder and shock and sadness in his voice, but he’s frozen  to the spot, too taken by the words that are still fresh on his skin, by Harry’s hand that squeezes his waist and the other that has begun to rub circles on the inside of his wrist. His heart quickens, his throat dries, and, suddenly, somehow Harry’s _right there_.

“Forgive me,” Harry whispers, voice sounding very wretched indeed for saying such beautiful words, and it’s the last thing that falls from his lips before they’re pressing into Louis’, just a shock of warm red lips that, somehow, feel even softer than they look. Warm breath pressed against Louis’ mouth, warm breath pushed into his mouth, soft lips moving against his and Louis’ bloody mind is gone, it’s vanished, his eyes closing as white dots flash behind his eyelids, his body frozen as Harry’s hand slides to the small of his back to push, to pull, to plead, and Louis is bloody melting like candle wax, seeping through the floorboards, because Harry bloody Styles is bloody kissing him and it’s like fucking tigers have been leashed free from Louis’ chest—

It’s just as he’s lifting his arms to wrap around Harry’s beautiful, smooth, glorious neck, that there’s a sharp knock on the door.

“Break’s up, you fucking twats. Louis, I know you’re in there—stop mucking about and get his bloody arse on my stage. I haven’t got all goddamn day, we have lines to rehearse, now get the fuck _out._ ” And with that, Niall’s fire storms off as quickly as it had come, Zayn’s exasperated sigh following in his wake.

Both Harry and Louis freeze.

It feels just as quick when Harry breaks away, eyes wide and staring at the door.

Heart still thumping in his ears, Louis’ arms fall, eyes wide and dazed as he can only stare at Harry, body and mind shocked silent.

Harry, in turn, seems rather out of sorts, his eyes still wild and mouth still parted on breathless breath as he slowly turns back to Louis, looking almost terrified. For a moment, they just stare at each other, wide eyes and wide eyes. Open mouths. Frozen hands.

“You must go,” Louis manages scratchily, quietly. He needs to catch his breath. “Here—I’ll be here when you get back. But you’ve got to go.”

A myriad of emotions play upon Harry’s face before he finally speaks, seeming a little broken. Louis wants to fix him, wants to press hands against his skin and seal the cracks because, no, it’s not bad, he doesn’t want to hurt him, he wants Harry to understand— _he wants him too._

“You’ll be here?” Harry repeats, voice doubting and eyebrows knit, but Louis nods, ripping himself out of his stupor as he places his hand over Harry’s heart and nods, swallowing, palm warm against his chest.

“I promise,” he whispers solemnly, the shock of the moment still thick.

Harry wants him. Harry Styles. They kissed. It wasn’t imaginary. It was real. They have a chance. Louis has a chance. Harry wants him.

After a moment, Harry eventually nods, briefly touching his hands to Louis’, still settled on his chest, before stepping back, hand blindly reaching for the door. Louis’ hand falls, feeling empty and hot at the same time.

“I’ll be back,” Harry promises, wild and passionate. Firm. “I’ll be right back.”

And Louis nods once more before Harry disappears behind the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW okay so it's been the Month From Hell. Actual hell. And I'm currently sick and I've been trying to reread this to make sure it's not a steaming pile of refuse but I'm lowkey high on too much cold medicine and generally miserable so I hope it makes sense and is not, in fact, a steaming pile of refuse. If it is, feel free to hurl insults at me because I always enjoy self-loathing, yesss 
> 
> Anyway what am I even saying. I hope to update soon, everything's gettin juicy now~ 
> 
> tumblr: mizzwilde


	11. X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis' stressed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to Lana's "My Religion" while I wrote this. Also Troye Sivan's "TALK ME DOWN". I highly recommend both.

“For you, there’s only love!”

The thick wool of Harry’s words unravels far below from where he’s currently lit up onstage, brightened by the smooth cream makeup that slathers his expression in burnt peach, the gleam of hot-bright lights casting glitter on his cheekbones. Sophia stands before him in a seductive pose, lips painted as red as the dress that adorns her and marked with the ghost of an occasional anxious bite, her nerves palpable even from this distance; they haven’t kissed yet, the scene still unfolding with a whimsical creep. Yet, slowly but steadily, the lines fall into place, categorized and chunked in Louis’ mind like puzzle pieces fitting together. Soon, in half a dozen lines, their lips will meet.

Louis swallows, his own still tingling, warm with the memory of Harry’s. Harry’s kiss.

_They kissed._

They feel hot—his lips. They feel pink and puffy and hot, little dancing fissures sparking beneath the surface, and he feels branded somehow, marked. Exposed, even, despite his solitude in the balcony, the shadows masking him from view and doing nothing to cool the heat on the back of his neck, the embers in his mouth, the prickly sweat of his palms, as Harry recites and sweeps his broad hands through the air, coaxing the words forth and conducting them in the most symphonic way. Louis wonders if the men in the orchestra pit stop to crane their necks and listen to the sound, wonders if they hear the same music that he does. Even from here, the melody of Harry’s words carries with stunning clarity, and Louis watches them fall from the fine cut of Harry’s flushed lips, feeling a blip in his pulse at the sight, at the sound.

_They kissed._

Louis swallows, unable to resist briefly touching the pads of his rough fingertips to his mouth, his exhale warbled with the effort. “I’ll run to you,” Harry insists and Louis burns as if scorched by the sun, feeling very far away as he watches in a dream, lost in the world being created before him, a universe held together by strings that wind delicately around Harry’s outstretched fingers. Tugging, tugging the world into place.

Distantly, he’s aware that he never returned to his seat with Mr. Higgins and Liam. But how, _how_ could he just sit amongst a crowd when his lips are still imprinted with Harry’s own, when his flesh is burnt with all the vibrancy of an exposed wound? He feels physically affected, he feels on display—he can’t face anyone quite yet. Not when Harry still lingers in his nostrils, and his knees won’t stop shaking.

Licking his lips, Louis feels and hears himself breathe, eyes glued to Harry’s every movement.

“The world is ours,” Harry insists and it’s still a song, the words carrying on the sudden tremor of the violin that blooms like ivy from the pit below. Steady hands creating music as Harry’s eyes shine. Green like leaves, bright like diamonds.

Sophia beams beautifully, a flush speckling her thin neck, the roses of her costume creating fire. She looks utterly beautiful and powerful, licked amongst the backdrop of night sky and mountains, standing tall and fair while Harry crashes to his knees before her, pleading and impassioned. “Though you were born unto a throne, young prince, it is I that hold the world in my palm. What say you to prove your worth?” she questions, voice wavering with her flush; she still has yet to master the aggression of her character, her passion.  In time, though—it will come.

It’s then that Louis sucks in a breath, hands gripping the balcony railing as he edges that much closer, heart thumping in his chest as Harry stares adoringly at the woman before him, curls swirling on the broad purple back of his jacket. Posed and almost Grecian.

Sophia fights a shy smile as Harry slowly rises, the softness of his face flashing memories behind Louis’ eyes. It’s the same expression that Harry had given him when they’d kissed. Except it’s somewhat altered, somewhat lessened, and Louis’ hands grip the wooden rail tightly, skin threatening to splinter, as he wonders if Harry’s thinking of him at this moment, if he’s recalling the kiss as Louis is.

Before he can think further, Harry kisses her. It’s passionate and strong—a beautiful stage kiss—filled with all the over-the-top grandeur one could hope for. Zayn is probably weeping with joy, Niall is probably reclining in relief, a sigh escaping his body at the magic of the moment, at the authenticity of Sophia’s startled gasp, at Harry’s creased brows and firm but pleading hands. He holds her with such reverence that Louis wonders if their own embrace looked the same.

Surprisingly, he feels no jealousy. Rather, the sight just makes his lips tingle all the more, everything warm and glowing and amber as the scene unfolds, and Louis feels dizzy, he’s drunk, he’s terrified, and the smell of wax and smoke are filling his nostrils and his trousers are itchy and his collarbones are glistened with a thin sheen of sweat and Harry is beautiful and Harry’s lips are crimson, they’re blood, they’re vital, and Louis can see them—even from back here—and Harry bloody Styles kissed Louis bloody Tomlinson.

_They kissed._

It’s all too surreal and alive and palpating and Louis feels almost as terrified as he does delirious. And happy. God…so bloody happy.

But everything still feels inconclusive somehow, having been ripped away from the warmth of Harry’s embrace, his words, his mouth, at such a cruel immediacy, that Louis can hardly even grasp the reality of the situation, almost can’t feel fully joyous because what if it was all just a fluke? It was so sudden, so wild. Was it all just rehearsal for the scene before them? Was it even real? “Forgive me,” Harry had said, right before he kissed him, and Louis’ been repeating the sentence in his head like a stale echo for the past thirty minutes and he’s lost and Harry kissed him.

He just wants the bloody rehearsal to end so he can get back in the goddamn dressing room.

Releasing a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, he shifts in his chair, shoes feeling too tight.

“I would sell my life, my soul, my throne, for you!” Harry boasts onstage, pulling back. His curls ripple with the movement, eyes wide and earnest, and his eyelashes can be seen from here, their dark spiky claws casting shadows.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

Harry kissed him.

And Louis waits.

**

At long last, the rehearsal is over.

“Thank bloody fuck,” Louis mutters under his breath, scuttling up and away as the stage disassembles below; he can hear Niall’s joyous (albeit slightly maniacal) laughter coasting above the din of voices, can practically smell the sharp smoke from Zayn’s celebratory cigarettes, can feel the claps on the back as Mr. Higgins congratulates one, congratulates all, on a spectacular run-through, Liam’s eyes mournfully following Sophia’s every move beside him.

And it’s all warm and lovely and celebratory and Louis would normally be in the thick of it, he would, but—but Harry.

He promised he’d be there upon his return. He promised and, bloody hell, he’ll be damned if he doesn’t keep that promise, for his sake and Harry’s both.

Footsteps echoing against marble, he beelines for the corridor, walking past the entrance to the stage hall and its current chaotic hum of voices. He just wants to see Harry, needs to see Harry. If only just to reassure him that his feelings are, in fact, reciprocated.

Dear lord. That’s a sentence he never thought he’d be thinking…

Swallowing against the sudden influx of nerves and excitement, he continues on his way.

**

When he opens the door, Harry isn’t there.

Unsurprised yet still oddly relieved, Louis sighs, slumping against the door briefly before he makes his way over to the wardrobe, hands itching for something to do as moisture begins to bead at his temples, heart thumping in his ears, throat, and chest; it’ll probably be at least twenty minutes until Harry returns, given the fact that this is his first official dress rehearsal (of sorts) at The Savoy and he’s bound to be at the receiving end of many an accolade and advisement, what with—

The door bursts open suddenly, Louis nearly jumping out of his shoes at the shock of it. He whips around, eyes wide.

“I’m sorry,” Harry blurts, more than slightly out of breath as he stares at Louis, silhouetted in the doorframe, the darkness in his eyes burning against the unnatural makeup; only his lips are natural in hue, crimson as they are. Stunning.

There’s a moment’s pause, a ripple of surprise, before Louis can gather up his vocal cords.

“What—what for?” he asks dumbly, eyes briefly falling to where Harry’s chest heaves as he fumbles the door closed, cheeks licked with pink and lips still parted, eyes wild and never once leaving Louis. He’s mad. And Louis’ mad for him.

Harry’s brows pull together. “For—for startling you. Just now? I’m sorry, I thought perhaps—“ he cuts himself off, noticeably awkward and unsure as he remains across the room, stiff as stone with his hands behind his back. He still smells like the stage.

As they continue to stare at each other, nerves begin to rapidly tumble down onto Louis, his body nearly sagging with the weight; the realization that they’re alone suddenly crashes into him, the knowledge powerful. His lips pulse with memory.

“I thought you’d be away longer,” Louis offers after a moment, quiet. He musters a half-smile, the pull in his chest so powerful that he resists stepping forward, hands playing with a loose seam in his trousers. Nerves, nerves, nerves. “Considering your remarkable performance, I just assumed that you’d be abducted by Zayn or Mr. Higgins—hell, even Niall.” He laughs, more breathy than custom, and Harry’s eyes fall to his lips at the sound, softening, melting on the very spot. Louis swallows. “You were…amazing up there. I’ve never seen talent like yours, Harry. Never.”

“I wonder if you’ve ever seen yourself properly, then,” Harry replies quietly but it’s still paired with a surprisingly bashful smile. “But thank you. Er. I’m sorry for my rather, erm, abrupt arrival. I just…” he trails off, still staring at Louis until he clears his throat, straightening. Hands sweep down his jacket as he finds his footing. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

“To…to return?” Louis questions despite knowing the answer, dizzy with the honesty; suddenly all of the silence, the scandal, the secrecy is laid bare before them, their words unhidden and raw and vulnerable and it’s electric to Louis, utterly bewildering as it is relieving. He’s never been one for lies or deceit—the truth is more than refreshing, even if it is anything but simple. “You were eager to return?”

Slowly, Harry nods. Yet he doesn’t move. “Yes.”

Cautiously, Louis takes a step forward, swallowing against the increase of his pulse, against the dim light that still seems too bright in his eyes. He avoids Harry’s intense gaze, feeling it leave marks across his face, as he looks down at the floor below, the floor he knows like the back of his hand, the floor where their shoes press into, Harry clothed in riches, Louis clothed in rags. A Prince and his Swallow, indeed.

“Did you, perhaps, wish to hear what I have to say?” Louis asks lightly, knowing the answer, knowing the way Harry is looking at him and the way the tendons flex beneath his clenching fist.

He hears the waver in Harry’s voice. “Yes.”

Another step forward. “And do you still desire to know?” The words are soft, almost playful, curled at the edges like the dried petals on the vanity.

An exhale. “Yes.”

“And”—another step forward—“do you think you want to know how I feel in his moment? How I admire you? Do you wish to know how you’ve inspired feelings within me that I’ve never felt?” A chuckle, more terrified than anything, as Louis steps up to Harry, eyes finally lifting to the latter’s face as he takes his hand and presses it into his chest, where Louis’ heart beats hardest. Harry’s hand trembles, quaking in time with the unsteady breath that falls from his lips, eyes so very bright, so very dark, so very perfect. It sates Louis in some way, fills more air in his lungs as he grips Harry’s hand all the more firmly, pressing the warm skin against the thin, pale cotton of his shirt. He wants him to feel the rabbit of his heartbeat, the way he drives him to frail insanity. “Do you wish to know that, for some time now, I have been as enchanted with you as you claim to have been with me? That I know that I’m far below your station”—he continues, louder, when Harry’s brow knits and he makes to protest—“and that you are, by far, the most talented and wonderful man I’ve ever had the pleasure of assisting, let alone befriending? Let alone…” He pauses, taking a shaky breath. “Let alone having the honor of being esteemed by?”

It somehow feels presumptuous to say, too absurd for reality, and Louis falters, his heart picking up a pace as Harry’s eyes widen, something insistent in his expression.

“You are more than you claim to be,” he insists, almost mournful, but there’s fascination in his tone as his fingers clench, just barely, in Louis’ shirt. His lips look so soft. “How long?” he asks, tone rich in color. “How long have you felt this way? I thought that you were indifferent to me, perhaps even repelled—“

At that, Louis can’t help but laugh, short and startled, as emotion stirs behind his eyes because this is all so surreal, Harry’s hand gripping his chest as the other finds Louis’ own. Skin pressed together as their toes touch, eyes locked. It’s nothing and yet it’s so much more than Louis ever thought to expect.

“I’ve been anything but,” he replies, shaking his head, unsteady. “Harry. I find you to be… _wonderful_. If I’ve ever given you the impression of anything but adoration, I apologize—it was merely my own insecurity that clouded my judgment and action. But I assure you—I’ve never held anything but adoration for you and your character. And, even now, I’m at a loss. I can’t believe you even consider me—“

“ _Louis_ ,” Harry interjects firmly then, the hand pulling from his chest to settle gently against Louis’ neck, the pad of his thumb brushing his pulse point. Exchanging one heartbeat for another. “From the very moment my eyes found you, I thought you to be the most exquisite creature I’ve ever come across. In mind, in body, in spirit.”

It’s then that Louis loses his breath, all of the air punched out of his lungs as he squeezes Harry’s hand and pulls him in, lips parting as they already seek Harry’s, his instincts taking over with the heady realization that Harry truly wants him, he does.

Matching his breath, Harry falls easily into the kiss, his hands strong on Louis’ body as they maintain a respectful hold around him, careful in their heat. It’s fucking maddening though, the kiss, the feel and smell of Harry, and Louis feels like he’s been awakened properly for the first time in his life, everything making sense suddenly, so clearly focused and alight; the ostentatious poems that the Romantics always banged on about suddenly have valid meaning, the fire of life suddenly feels palpable, the very sensation of humanity is suddenly present, and Louis breathes heavily through his nose as his lips bleed into Harry’s and his body weakens under his touch.

“I thought of you as I kissed her,” Harry manages between the meeting of their lips, breathless and earnest, and Louis’ ribcage all but opens and spills out his innards, spills out everything, overwhelmed by what he wants to give to Harry—himself, really. It’s startling and terrifying and Louis inhales shakily as he pulls away, fingers shaking as they come to grip the lapels of Harry’s jacket.

So smooth beneath course hands.

“I must—I must dress you for the evening,” Louis mumbles randomly, cheeks aflame as the reality of everything crashes into him, sending him whirling. He’s overwhelmed—blissful, but overwhelmed—and Harry’s scent is so strong, his touch a religion.

He needs to focus, needs to at least attempt some semblance of control.

“What?” Harry laughs, amused as he captures Louis’ lips in another kiss, lingering and a little more chaste. Just warm.

“Dress you,” Louis attempts, dizzy, dizzy, dizzy. His eyes might bloody cross. He needs to get a grip. “For the evening. I’m still your valet—“

“You’re so much more,” Harry insists, words all but dancing. Still though, he releases him, flushed and clearly still a bit shy as he watches him with dark, careful eyes. “But dress me if you so desire.”

Yes. Yes, this is good.

Feeling like his head is still pumped with helium, Louis nods to himself, breathing deeply as he attempts to clear some of it, retreating to the wardrobe. He’s still shaky though, still utterly stunned by the entire course of events of this day (it’s been utterly exhausting, every last bit of it) and it’s this that leaves a strange sort of terror in his chest; a terror of what this means, of their future, their risk, of everything. How will the play continue if they’re to be secretly courting? Are they even courting? Will it be written across their faces, will they be in danger of discovery? It already feels as if Louis’ lips are on fire, his skin branded with Harry, with the truth, with exposure, and it’s as exhilarating as it is bloodcurdling.

There’s so much to discuss. So much. But Louis can barely keep his breathing in check, and right now? Right now is not the time for this talk.

He dresses Harry in a strange silence, the air between them buzzing and palpable.

“I can’t believe I have the privilege to kiss you,” Harry mutters at one point, lost in his gaze as he watches Louis straighten the hem of his trousers. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long. In truth, longer than I realize, I’m sure. It took me some time to understand the feelings you inspire within me.”

“Yeah?” Louis questions, shaky. He bites his lip, almost hesitant to discuss this. While before the honesty felt like a breath of fresh air, now it suddenly seems stifling; what if this is all a horrible mistake? Will this jeopardize their friendship? Harry’s career? The play? Their lives?

What does any of this mean?

Louis can’t think, save for his lust, his pure adoration for the man before him, and it’s confusing, is all. It’s overwhelming. He’s never been this affected, he doesn’t understand it.

Is this humanity or is this madness?

“Hm, yes,” Harry murmurs, hand gently gripping Louis’ elbow, urging him to rise on his feet.

Carefully, Louis rises, slow to meet Harry’s imploring eyes, as ablaze as they are. They look free. They look how Louis felt when Harry kissed him for the first time.

It must mean something. Surely it’s alright. Surely, they can make it work. It may not be as complex as it appears. Surely.

“I’ve never loved anyone before,” Harry says quietly, expression softening as his hand remains on Louis’ elbow. Still cautious, still respectful, but the word ‘love’ all but spirals Louis into near panic. “I never felt anything for anyone… And then _you_ came along. With your face and your manner and your inquisitive mind and beautiful voice and words and…and general existence.” He laughs, breath against Louis’ face.

Louis’ chest aches. Ecstasy and terror war within.

“I didn’t understand why your very presence felt almost torturous to me,” Harry explains, words so soft. Velvet like the jacket that now hangs in the wardrobe. “It took me some time to understand the nature of the feelings. Of… _my_ nature.”

Louis exhales, overwhelmed.

Perhaps noticing Louis’ silence, his stillness, Harry’s face twitches almost imperceptibly, smile fading just a fraction. “But I knew you wouldn’t find it wrong,” he continues, almost defensively. Almost unsure. “Zayn and Niall—after you showed me that…I knew. Everything made sense.”

Of course it did. Louis still remembers the moment clear as day, branded into his brain forever. He remembers every single moment with Harry.

The air in the dressing room feels stale.

Still, Harry watches him, fingers still pressed into his arm. Beautiful boy. “May I spend the remainder of the evening in your company, my Little Swallow?” he murmurs, fingers beginning to brush, inquisitive and seeking.

This feeling is so new, so innocent and curious for the both of them, that it almost shatters Louis’ heart in how differently they’re experiencing it; Harry’s fallen into it, passionate and beautiful like his soul, as he explores, absorbing all that he can. Louis, meanwhile, is shaky and unsure, terrified and cowardly as he frantically attempts to grasp some semblance of reason, of understanding; he feels out of control and confused as his body responds to Harry’s touch immediately, his mind blanking white.

He wants Harry, he adores Harry—of this, he is sure. Of their future, he is unsure.

 _Tread lightly and with caution_ , his mind whispers.

He doesn’t know what that means.

“Do you have obligations with Sophia?” Louis asks softly, lost in the color of Harry’s eyes as they sweep across his face. Jade ringed in coal. “This evening? Were you to dine with her or the like?”

For a moment, Harry falters, a small frown on his face as he ducks his head, avoiding Louis’ gaze. “Well, yes, perhaps,” he stutters quietly, low and murmured, before he lifts his gaze and settles it back on Louis, more confident. Sure. “But I wish to be with you instead.”

A tight breath fills Louis’ lungs at that, his own frown forming. “Harry,” he chides softly, wishing, more than anything, that this could all be so much simpler. That they could just…confess to each other and explore this in peace, in earnestness. The nature of their love is beautiful, innocent—why must it be borne from such chaos? The world is smudged with deceit and Louis will be damned if he’ll let it get to that which he holds most dear. 

He never used to think this way. He used to be appreciative of life, thankful for its opportunities.

Now… Now he’s mixed up like knots.

Harry frowns, hand falling from Louis’ elbow. “What?”

Pausing, Louis licks his lips. The moment feels fragile. “You can’t just…you can’t abandon her. You’re meant to carry this out. For the play, for the theater, for her sake…” he trails off, recognizing the unfairness in the words, the cruelty of reality. It feels like a sting. “I—I wish that it was simpler. God, do I wish it was simpler. But you mustn’t be reckless…” He fall short, lame and unsure as he stares helplessly at Harry. He doesn’t know what’s right.

Luckily, Harry doesn’t seem offended by the words; rather resigned, if anything. “You’re right, of course,” he mutters, darkness creeping into his tone. “Such is my life, my job.” He lifts his head, expression now blank yet edged with the taste of bitterness. Exhaustion. “It’s an obligation I must keep.”

“She’s a good girl,” Louis attempts, hands reaching out just as Harry steps away, turning his back on Louis with a sigh that shouldn’t feel as heartbreaking as it does. “I’m sorry,” he continues after a moment, frowning deep. His heart still feels odd and jumbled, heavy for no discernible reason. “I want nothing more than to spend the evening in your company. Truly. But I just don’t know what’s best.”

“Well. Clearly, you do,” Harry replies in a monotone as he adopts his coat, face still void of emotion. Methodically, he buttons it, head bent, chin bumping his chest, curls corkscrewed around his ears.

Louis’ heart aches at the mere sight of him. Nothing makes sense.

“No, I just—I want to do this _right_ ,” Louis attempts to explain, a new sense of panic filling him up as Harry continues to suit himself up for departure. He won’t look at him and it’s—god, if Louis thought the room was suffocating before, then it’s positively lethal now, emitting poisonous gas, leaving his lungs dry and cracked. It’s very much akin to death, he reckons. “I don’t want to pursue this foolishly, Harry, I—“

“I merely want to court you, Louis,” Harry sighs, cross, as he finally looks over at Louis, hands falling to his sides. He looks tired suddenly, shadows swept beneath his eyes.

The words leap around in Louis’ brain, sending waves of pleasure up his spine as he shares a small, surprised smile, touched.

“I’d love that,” he admits quietly and it’s tender enough for Harry’s own countenance to soften considerably, a bit of relief settling on his firm shoulders. “But,” Louis continues, keeping his eye, “I just don’t want us to be reckless.”

Sighing with another wave of frustration, Harry looks away.

“I want to do this right,” Louis insists.

Amidst adorning his gloves, Harry glances at him. “I didn’t know you to be so cautious.”

Frowning, Louis watches him, momentarily unsure how to respond. “Only when it’s of considerable importance to me,” he explains.

“And I can understand that,” Harry counters, suddenly impassioned again as he walks up to Louis, expression open. “But it feels as if I’ve just lifted a weight off of my shoulders, finally freed a part of myself and, by some stroke of luck, found an attainable happiness in the one thing I want—you. And yet somehow it also feels as though it’s been ripped from me, as though you’re hesitant to trust me—“

“It’s all so new still,” Louis interjects quietly, hands seeking Harry as they find purchase on his jacket. He doesn’t really know what he’s feeling or why, he doesn’t even know how to defend himself. What Harry says makes sense, it does, it’s understandable. But it’s not what Louis’ ready for just yet. So he grabs fistfuls of Harry’s jacket, just to be close, as he helplessly stands there, feeling as if he’s about to cry or shout or—or something. He’s just feeling so much and he’s terrified and he wants Harry so badly. That’s all it is. “I’m here, though. Alright? First and foremost as your friend, Harry, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. I’ve just never experienced anything like this before and I want to be sure, alright? I want to uphold our responsibilities and just—just be sure, alright? We can’t be foolish with this.”

“I thought only fools fall in love,” Harry counters back, eyes dropping as he lets himself be held by Louis’ hands, still clenched tightly in his coat.

“Ah, but it’s only the fools that rush in,” Louis quips in return and Harry sighs, perhaps a little fondly as one corner of his mouth quirks. It makes Louis smile. Just a small one. “Just…just go with Sophia tonight. And tomorrow? Tomorrow, we’ll talk. Sort some of this out…if you wish.”

“I do wish,” Harry replies immediately, hands briefly squeezing Louis’ before they carefully unclench them from his jacket, eyes softer now despite the sadness that rings them. “You matter more to me than anyone, Louis. I just wish…I wish it was simpler, I suppose.”

“As do I,” Louis expresses earnestly, the warmth of Harry’s hands sorely missed when they’re suddenly gone. He wants to always be touching him.

For a few moments there’s just silence, Harry’s face looking horribly forlorn as they words linger in the air between them, Louis chewing on the inside of his lip and watching him carefully, wondering how to touch him, how to comfort him. Should he just continue with his instincts, just wrap hands around his limbs and press lips to his temple, his cheek, lips, neck? Should he be slower, more careful? How does one ‘court’?

He’s not sure. So he keeps his hands by his sides, unsure. Longing. Tired.

He doesn’t know what to do.

“I best be off, else I’ll be late,” Harry says at last, eyes still avoiding Louis as he makes his way forward.

It feels awful as Louis watches him. Weren’t they just kissing? Didn’t they just confess their love for each other?

“Have fun,” Louis calls out weakly, unsure if he should tack on a ‘sir’. Would it be too formal?

Swallowing, Louis watches Harry’s back, wanting nothing more than for them to depart with another kiss, with tenderness. And, blast, this is all of his fault, isn’t it, so he really can’t complain, but it hurts, is the thing, and he wants Harry to just understand him—he wants him to understand how madly he adores him. But, also, how terrified he is. Of everything. Even though he doesn’t know why, has never been terrified before.

“Harry?” he calls before Harry’s hand falls to the doorknob, his voice lifted in hope.

Pausing momentarily, Harry glances back. “Yes?”

Louis attempts a weak smile. “Will you stay with me one night longer?”

It’s an attempt at a peace offering—to part with affection and good intention. To remind them who they are and what they are. To recall some of the normalcy Louis had always taken for granted.

But Harry’s expression doesn’t soften, doesn’t change; instead, he merely looks away, opening the door.

“Perhaps,” he says in a tone that reveals nothing before the door closes with a click.

**

The evening wears down, color bleeding from the sky until it’s drained, leaving only a bleak darkness interspersed with pinpricks of light and a mist that clings to the air like blanketed fog.

Louis stares out his window for most of it, open books lying around him in careless piles, his fingerprints dusted on the pages. The words are beautiful, looking up at him watchfully and he finds a comfort in them, hears an echo of Harry’s voice, and so he keeps them exposed. Doesn’t have the heart to close them. Not when it feels like a strange sort of company as he sits with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, breath beginning to plume with the chill that’s crept past his thin walls. It could be called loneliness but Louis would like to attribute it to patience. Perhaps even a resigned understanding—thought that doesn’t sound all that much better, does it?

He sighs when he finally closes each book with gentle, tired hands, their spines cracking, their pages crisp and still wafting fresh ink when they snap shut with soft plunks. Hands sweeping across their pristine covers, he carefully lines them on the shelf, gilt titles finding a soft glow in the dark flat. He feels a warmth in his cold chest as he stands before them and regards the image they make—the one splash of value in his humble abode—and he feels a smile in his chest despite his impassive expression, gripping the blanket around his shoulders all the tighter, his socked feet cold on the floor. He’d almost be best keeping his shoes on tonight; he’s not used to the cold yet.

He misses Harry.

And yes, he knows he must perform his duties with Sophia, he must. Louis was, after all, the one to insist as such.

But now here he stands, alone in a cold flat while the moon ascends along a black velvet backdrop through his cracked window, and there’s a chill in his bones that won’t go away, a silence that won’t unsettle the ringing in his ears, and his lips feel oddly chapped and bit sore. Almost as if they’re protesting the loss of their new acquaintance.

It’s all foolish, though. All his loneliness and his silent, begrudging longing…it’s all foolish. It’s how it has to be. He should be over the moon that he even has Harry at all, that Harry reciprocates his feelings even just a fraction, and yet here he is, pining for his presence even moreso than he deserves to; he just wishes they parted on better terms, is all.

He sighs, unsettled and shaky, as he closes his eyes briefly. He should just go to bed.

“It’s nought to do with you, Louis,” he mutters to himself eventually, a bit of finality to his voice, and the sound combined with his freshly established mental barriers is what carries his feet to the bed. Where the springs creek and the blankets are too thin and the mattress lies unevenly. Where the light bleeds through the window and sets the thin iron frame aglow, harsh and black like charcoal dusted wire. He wants it to feel peaceful like it always has all his life, he wants to feel the exhaustion settle happily behind his eyes when he hits the pillow. But instead there’s an insistent tugging in his chest and his feet feel so bloody cold. It’s ungrateful, is what it is. And yet he can’t stop feeling it.

Only when his eyes begin to finally settle deeper into his skull, does it come. The shark rap on the door.

Startled, his eyes immediately pop back open, his body going rigid as he strains to hear what he thought he just did. Or perhaps it was madness? But no—there it is again. Most definitely a rap.

Eyebrows pressing together, he shoves his blankets aside, quick to jump out of the bed and amble to the door in the dark that his eyes have now adjusted to, everything bleeding together in blacks and blues around him. Who on earth could be calling on him at this hour? Surely not Mr. Corden—

But when he opens the door, he finds Harry.

It probably shouldn’t be as startling as it is.

“Harry,” he blurts immediately, heart rocketing up into his throat as he blinks with a start, taking in the disheveled man before him.

He’s got a crimson velvet jacket on, legs adorned in blackest black and Louis’ favorite pair of shoes that he owns—the ones with delicate stitching on the toe. His curls are touched with oil, clustered atop his head in piles of ringlets that cascade off to one side and his lips are bloody obscene in their red-licked color, fuller than usual. Perhaps they’ve been bitten, perhaps they’re soaked in wine.

“I was so very hoping that you would answer,” Harry greets after a moment, a dazed smile blooming onto his face as he leans a little precariously on the doorframe, hand gripping the wood. He sways just the barest amount, liquor clear on his breath, and his eyes are as glossy as his lips when they fall on Louis’ face, exposed with emotion. “Want to see you.”

“Harry. What are you doing here?” Louis asks, still shocked at the very sight of him despite the eager pitter-patter of his pulse. Hand still on the doorknob, he hesitates to let the man in, all too aware of their previous conversation in the day. “You’re meant to be with Sophia. You have obligations Harry, I thought we agreed—“

“It’s _you_ that I want to be with,” Harry protests, looking so very forlorn suddenly, so longing and small as he slumps against the doorframe, head lolling to one side as his lips tug into a frown. “I know, Louis, I know you said that I need to stick to my obligations but not tonight, yeah? I’ve only just allowed myself to feel you, to _worship_ you…” He hiccups, breaking up some of the careful poetry of the moment and Louis can’t help but smile a bit as Harry excuses himself, clumsy hand over his lips and eyes wide. “I just want to be near you. I miss this...” He motions to the flat with his other hand, eyes beginning to scan his meager surroundings. “Missed this place.”

Louis snorts. “I somehow doubt that, my friend. These scraps can hardly compare to the luxury you’re used to,” he says softly, unable to mask a small smile.

At the words, Harry’s lidded gaze falls back to him and he stands just a fraction straighter, trying to gain his footing as his hands fall to his sides. Everything zeroing in on Louis. “But it houses that which is most precious to me.”

Thud, thud, thud, goes Louis’ heart and he’s sure Harry can feel the vibrations of it.

“What—my books?” Louis offers, scraped and playful as he takes a step back, the brass of the doorhandle hot under his palm. Harry’s gaze is still on him and the room is syrupy and dark around them, inviting and asking to swallow them whole. Part of Louis yearns to jump in it, Harry’s hand in his.

But…but there’s more to it. There is.

“No,” Harry replies very seriously as he shakes his head, another small hiccup escaping his parted lips. Louis wants to die, wants to touch him. “No, it’s you. I don’t want to be with Sophia.”

“She’s a lovely girl,” Louis whispers, defenses weakening.

“She’s a lovely friend,” Harry nods but his eyes are even darker as he steps forth. Just one small step and, lord, it’s not enough, not nearly enough. “But she’s not you. Just wanna be with you.”

“You’re just drunk,” Louis argues, standing in his night clothes and feeling the chill along the back of his neck. He feels exposed and yet still wants Harry closer, wants him to bleed his warmth into his body.

“I confess. I am,” Harry says with a half-shrug and it’s so honest and almost childlike that Louis can’t help but chuckle under his breath; Harry delights at the sound, standing up that much straighter as he takes another step forward. “But, though I am drunk, I still wish to be near you. Let me stay? Please? It’s so cold in my rooms, they have nothing of your charms.”

“But…” Louis searches for words, for protests that struggle to break through the wall of comfort that Harry inherently procures within him. He wants to reach for it, to pull the feeling close to his chest. “Sophia… You’re meant to perform your duties with her. Be seen with her. Go out. It’s not just for you, Harry, it’s for the theater, yeah? And Mr. Higgins and Zayn and Niall—for the play—“

“I’ll be good,” Harry promises, stepping inside fully now as his hands settle gently on Louis’ shoulders, wide eyes imploring. “I will fulfill my duties and—and obligations.” Another small hiccup, a lopsdided smile. Louis’ heart has all but crept out of his chest and housed itself in Harry’s pocket. “I will dazzle her on the town and show the world I am worth watching!” He snaps his fingers in a flourish before settling them back on Louis, smile brilliant and glazed. “But first. But first? May I please sleep by your side? If only just to…be near you. If only to remind myself that today was not, in fact, a dream and that…that, even in the smallest way, I am yours?”

It’s a sudden rush, what that sentence does to Louis. The almost playful, nagging air between them dissipates into pure warmth; he’s surprised roses don’t bloom in the words’ wake.

“Mine?” Louis questions, exhilarated with it as he stands there dumbly, Harry’s hands so warm and steady despite his heady inebriation and clumsy limbs. He blinks, swallows, breathes, before he shuts the door softly behind him, resolve weakening. “I don’t know if I dare to be so bold as to—“

“Yours,” Harry insists with a finger to Louis’ lips and it’s more bold than his sober self, more silly and sweet and hopeful as he tilts his head and smiles, a flower in his buttonhole. A sprig of white hyacinth. It shouldn’t work but it does, always does with Harry. “If you allow me to be. I want to be yours.”

For a moment, Louis can’t really breathe for fear of shattering the dream within which he’s stumbled. But Harry’s breath is pungent on his mouth, his hands almost sweaty, and there’s a sheen of oil on his skin that makes everything so real, so tangible, and the rose and citrus and mint that cling to his clothes is thick enough for Louis to just nod, exhaustion settling behind his eyes and poking reminders at his joints as he slides hands up to Harry’s, entangling their fingers and tugging him to the bed.

“You are as much mine as I am yours,” he whispers in the dark, unsure if he wants Harry to see just how much he means that sentence.

But Harry must see it all because he smiles with such blinding force that Louis almost stumbles, almost crashes them to the floor.

“Sleep,” he says when Harry stifles a yawn, eyes weighted with his own exhaustion. He sits on the t0o-small bed, shuffles to the very end, and presses against the wall before smiling sleepily up at Harry, who stands with his knees pressed against the mattress, who’s looking down at Louis with soft sleepiness and contentment, hands limp at his sides. “Come sleep,” Louis pushes, reaching a hand out, fingers outstretched and seeking.

It doesn’t take long for them to find what they seek. Fingers linked, Harry smiles as he clambers next to him, rather ungracefully.

“Oi,” Louis protests with a breathy laugh as Harry kicks off his shoes unceremoniously, shuffling out of his jacket and nearly elbowing him in the neck. “Watch it, spaghetti limbs.”

“Mm,” Harry hums, face hitting the pillow like stone. His eyes are already drooping closed when he shuffles to face Louis, hand crawling to seek the warmth of Louis’ chest, the other spidering for his hand. Louis allows it, links their fingers again and enjoys the warmth it pushes through his entire body, down to his toes. “Wouldn’t ever hurt you. Won’t knock you in the head.”

“Not on purpose, I’m sure,” Louis mutters but his voice is getting even quieter, the air around them settling.

It’s odd, this, the way everything’s just…

Because today has been utterly mad—from start to finish—and so much has been said and so many feelings have been felt and Louis spent the night alone, forlorn and cold in his flat by himself, until he resigned himself to sleep. And yet, now, he’s cuddled up to Harry in the very same bed, the atmosphere suddenly soft and shaded in breath that eases the anxiety out of his limbs and, suddenly, it’s all simpler. It’s better. Just like that, everything’s just…this.

He swallows, hand finding a firmer grip in Harry’s.

It’s as they’re both falling into sleep when Harry mumbles one last sentiment, lips smashed against the pillow.

“Thank you,” he says, eyes closed. Lips still red. “Thank you for letting me stay. Just one night longer, my little Swallow.”

“Thank you, my Prince,” Louis replies after a few moments have passed, his heartbeat slowing, and it’s the last thing he hears before he falls into a restful sleep, royalty in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was...the strangest chapter to write. I had plans of it going in a completely different direction but this just happened and it felt right and I'm an emotionally incapable piece of shit, so I apologize? I also apologize for how long it takes me to upload chapters--I might have the most unpredictable life in the world. (But don't we all?) 
> 
> Aaanyway, thank you all so much for your beautiful comments and messages. I read them all, I truly do, and I hope that someday I have a year off in a secluded cabin somewhere so I can properly thank each and every one of you. You're too good to me and I want to wrap you up in satin and rub coconut oil on your cheeks. Kiss, kiss. 
> 
> Thank you, ILY, the wilde ride continues....

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, lovelies! Now let's have some fun with this. :)
> 
> Tumblr: mizzwilde


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